When the train cand through
our little slice of the world,
we’d laugh when we heard
its whistle blow—long and

loud, like nights in New
Orleans—and how we’d weep
if the conductor ever died.
The stars would shine because

they have little else to do
on those cold nights. We’d
huddle together near the
fireplace and turn behind us

to point at our shadows on
the wall. You always made
your shadows into such pretty
things; I was too clumsy to

make anything beautiful.
And I wasn’t able to keep
anything beautiful for very
long, either. So when you

left, I didn’t really need an
explanation. Sometimes,
if I listen close enough,
I still hear you laugh

when the train blows
its whistle.