February 3, 2015

My connection with the Metro North train crash of 2015.

My father was running late that day.

He informed us that he missed his train.

My young imagination created a spectacular movie scene

of him running after a series of gargantuan retreating glass and metal metal boxes on wheels

his tie and coattails whipping behind him with the wind as he shouted at nothing

but my father was more dignified than that, and he would have known

he had missed his opportunity, cursing in frustration

killing time by trying to learn the constellations

painted onto the ceiling a very long time ago.

He called my mother - frustrated, impatient

but the conversation they had contained

no unease, just sympathy; I slept soundly,

and had good dreams, anticipating the kiss

on the forehead from my father that inevitably

would pull me from my sleep with a smile.

Only the next day did we learn

about a certain fatal train crash.

My eyes took in the metal body

of the train - twisted, deformed,

like a piece of bad modern art.

I laughed inwardly, darkly,

at the irony of the situation

Being late, an adverse trait

we focus on correcting

had probably saved

my father’s life then.

I cried outwardly.