Train Whistle

 

On rare occasions, when the air is still

and the night is quiet,

I can hear the sound of a train whistle

in the distance.

The low, raspy, grinding call comes sounding

over the miles from some unknown place.

 

I am a child again,

Watching as a train clatters slowly past

the park and playground.

Where brave souls, if they run fast enough,

and jump high enough,

Can hitch a ride out of the neighborhood.

 

I am in my twenties

on a cross-country train trip,

talking with strangers.

Jostling through narrow aisles as the cars

tremble along.

Sleeping uncomfortably, stretched across

two seats under a long rain coat.

 

I listen for the train again,

in vain,

and feel very stationary.

 (© 2004 Connie S. Tettenborn)