By Jen Blair
The train never pulled into the station of my mind.
The depot seats were sterling, the platform scrubbed
clean, the ladies with parasols, tense and attendant.
The trees, fiery yellow with late fall prayed to be
gloriously obscured by a thunderous wrath, munificent
roar. Yet hour after hour their forms remained
un-interrupted and when some old man with mints
in his pocket had the good sense to groan out loud
the sun fell and everyone went home, straight to the
mantel, and took down their family Bible and snipped
out the scripture they’d trusted in most because
that was the kind of world they suddenly found
themselves holding in their tender breath.