Girl on the Train

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I came down the drive tonight

just before the rainstorm,

and the lamp was on,

and the fan moving thick air through the front room,

and you weren’t home.

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You’d taken a train to the sea,

then a steamship across,

and were walking Berlin in 1943,

and the bikes were ringing under the bombers

(and I was jealous).

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You’d been whisked up into the war,

but there was hope, too,

and love letters to a prisoner,

and a thin string of light under the iron door,

and it was like the lamp tonight

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Well, I had to step inside

so that you looked up,

and I realized I’d broken the spell,

and the sparking halt had thrown you off the train,

and then the rain started up.

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