She loved the low, mournful
sound of trains.
She knew she could never die.
She heard that in the trains.
They needed someone to listen,
someone to know their long,
serpentine sadness.
They went to the end of all destinations.
They never stopped.
They went through a multitude of crossroads.
They told each one their story.
The woman who lost her lover.
The child who was utterly alone.
The man who froze
and never returned their call.
The trains knew them,
heard them,
collected their souls,
and my sister shook with their suffering,
lay awake,
and heard their passing.
She was the child who never slept.
The one the trains knew, who listened,
and they never told her she would die,
her heart would break,
the years would be so sad.
It was all new,
her story still untold,
and she called to me to listen.
“Listen, Ted, listen…
to the trains!”