artwork: ralph murre
Night
Train
by Wilda
Morris
As a child I
fell asleep
to the whistle
of the night train
moaning like a
woman in pain,
the wheels on
the track
more rackety
than an old walker
pushed across
a wooden floor.
Tonight I’m at
the old home place,
one ear tuned
and waiting.
Let me be
small again
in this house
warm with love
and the scent
of apple dumplings.
Let me lean
against Mother
as she sings
or deals out cards
for a game of
rummy.
Let her tuck
me in,
read me a
goodnight story,
her kiss warm
on my left cheek.
Let me be a
child again one short hour
before I take
the night pills to Mother,
tuck her
beneath the quilt,
touching my
lips
to her
wrinkled forehead,
before the
night train passes.
~ previously
published in Cradle Songs: An Anthology
of Poems on Motherhood (Quill and Parchment Press)
