We sit in the car
and shift into park
as the blinking red guard
glides into place.
The old diesel engine heaves
a holler as it steams
ahead pulling a freight that seems
weightless, dressed in graffiti
on a one way track.
I ask:
“Do you see the cars?
Do you see the art?
Do you see how far
the train goes on?”
The boy in the back seat
is too small to speak,
too small to really see
my tears in the rear view mirror.
His third sibling has died
despite how hard I tried
to sustain its short life
inside my womb.
The old diesel, now out of sight,
chugs on in my mind
pulling its burdens and mine
on a one way track
unseen, it seems,
by everyone but me.
