The Depot

I’m sat in a bosom of healing,

Walled by many windows,

Filled with folks gathered to

Hear the music. I’m a stranger.


Here there is a song sung by one and heard

By many, some present, some

Not; a song with a soothing touch,

A song sung by one offering glimpses

Through the veil of other into

The flicker of a life lived seeing.


These short words, whose long meaning might

Only be known to the woman

Standing in a building that was

Once a train depot, these words

Make walls and glass near tracks

Carrying screeching loads

A place to mend wound and

Breathe easy. Even for the stranger.


Family here, family even without

That ever-harped on blood,

Swimming in song that makes small

Rooms big. If you listen close enough,

You can see it push wood without cracking,

Bulge glass without breaking, move

Tears without creating sobs.


In the heat heavy bosom cooled

By mechanical means, I realize, finally, I’m

No stranger. Related, in a writerly way,

Related, as tribes are, related, just as these words

Made song relate one spirit’s

Dance to another.


I thought I’d stand near the tracks to feel

The train as it passed. I didn’t. Instead

I walked and knew that where once I held pain,

Where once I held pain,

I now felt kind hands

Assuring me I’d be

Just fine.



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