A train slides by, its horn blowing
a few times a minute; it’s far off.
Another slides by, its horn
much nearer, a few minutes farther on;
it’s the same train, the same horn.
Bird in the bush outside chirping,
flits off; bird outside chirping
in the bush directly after — sounds like
the same bird that flitted back.
Cars go by; they’ll come back sooner
or later. People walk by with their dogs.
and then walk back. I see the same ones every day;
you could set a clock by them. My mother
is dying slowly seventeen miles south —
or, she’s hanging on one more day,
one more week; I can’t say except
it’s hard to be near her; at ninety-eight
she refuses to go. Not giving up
seems to be her only way to be
and a train slides by, a train slides back;
bird chirps and flits and chirps;
cars do their back and forth, dogs
walk their people. I’m sitting here,
waiting, and I will likely be waiting
a while. I don’t know how to end this;
I don’t really want it to end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T