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.