Strangers on a Train
Mom sits across from me,
hands clenched tightly in her lap.
I wonder if thatís where she stows
her regret, thorny tendrils of too late
curled around a punctured past.
She offers me apologies in a slight smile;
I quickly look away, out the window.
Yesterday is dressed in black,
holding something bronze in her hands;
my latch-key life. I wish to lose her.
And she is lost to me. For now.
Below, on the train platform,
I watch families drown in tears,
reaching for limbs and trunks.
Mom says she wants to catch up,
itís been too many years since goodbye.
With a quick glance, I nod. Sigh.
Wonder who this elderly woman is,
realize weíve never been anything more
than strangers on a train.