Evening

I see the lit windows as I always do

walking up the hill, sometimes just as

the train comes dinging: the twin panes

of our living room gazing light down

into the alley with the same look

my mother wore in her eyes when snow

delivered me home late. Warmth

burning behind the curtains, behind

her eyeglasses, as sure as the direction

of that freight. But it's spring now.

The train must be stopping in some

other town. And up in the homeglow

of the four rooms my wife and I share,

I know there's a table I'll set with dishes,

two tabbies deep in sleep, and our five

married years in cabinets of wishes.

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