A train ran through the backyard of our wrong side of the tracks rental
young and pregnant and mostly alone
I heard longing in its whistle echo off bare cinder block walls.
He loved his dealing, his bar life, he would spring from our half finished
love bed to answer the door then leave without a word
not returning until the 0530 whistle faded into sunrise.
Emotional distance is a treatment hard to take.
The emotional blackmail of retaliation hurts more
Forgettable love making mixed pregnant hormones into hatred -
yet I stayed, heavy with hope for the future.
It was always push and pull with him, never steady,
always looking for the glory train, quick buck dream of riches.
Mr. Wheeler Dealer never made it past mundane middleman.
He drove a used Mercedes, we lived on Welfare.
He refused to be more than a sperm donor, half assed babysitter.
He made me crazy with worry, brought home pistol packing strangers.
He told me cocaine was the next big thing.
I got on that train for a while, rode it to suicide wrists.
Mysterious migraines arrived at 1600, no train
needed to tell the time, only the dread of what crazy thing
would come through the door wanting food or money.
Twice I left him,
and twice he pulled me back with good daddy promises.
It took me 8 years to see that no train could carry this
baggage of wanting what was never there.