Train

                                          

I really can't write about it
the thing that keeps calling me

it sits like a train at the station
waiting for me to board
and I won't

in a lonely compartment with
the curtain half drawn
you sit:  face in shadow
but I would know you anywhere

I envision old movies with
starched maidens in gabardine
lingering in foreign stations;
sincere men sprout white handkerchiefs
profess everything through the
steam of the train as it pulls away

but this train has no driver
no engine
a past but no destination

I cannot look in case it leaves
I can only look in case it stays

I just can't write about it