Sitting in the Bar Car on the Amtrak while a Storm Moves in over Illinois in the Springtime

SITTING IN THE BAR CAR ON THE AMTRAK WHILE A STORM MOVES IN OVER ILLINOIS IN THE SPRINGTIME

I’m inside this box rattling

toward a cemetery called Swan Lake

near my old home town

where they will lower into the ground

another box, a smaller box.

From the train window

the farther away the farmhouse

the slower it moves by,

the more gently time seems

to touch it, and the farm boy

who stands near the tracks

with his eyes wide as flattened pennies

grows as we move toward him

and then he’s gone in a whiplash.

A woman at another table

begs her mother to tell her

why men are so distant,

why people leave, why things

have to happen this way.

Her mother doesn’t know

and the woman begins to cry.

I stand to go to the bathroom

and when the train lurches I stumble

into her and spill her drink.

She begins to scream

and bat at her wet blouse

while her mother tries to calm her.

I tell her I’m sorry,

I’m sorry,

as the heavy green trees

beyond the glass

shake in the wind

like giant wet dogs

in slow motion.

I’m inside this box

rattling toward a cemetery

called Swan Lake

near my old home town

but there will be no swans. There

have never been any swans.

END