Maybe
she’s gone home
to see her mother.
Standing again
on the platform at Union Station
with a toddler in each hand,
clutching a battered suitcase,
waiting to board the Santa Fe
and a sleeper to Oklahoma City.
Earlier she tried
to pull her gown off
(a common occurrence
the hospice nurse
tells us),
and now lies pinned in the
wreckage of unsacked linen
as still and unsurprising
as a car on blocks.
Gown lifted,
her bruised veins mark
roads to somewhere
beyond the edges of most maps,
a geography as plain and simple
as a Tulsa parking lot.
With daylight leaking
through half raised blinds
and the sun throwing off its clothes
with all the reckless abandon
of a drunken teenager, I wonder how many lives
once folded in that beat up suitcase,
now being lifted by two helpful attendants
struggling to get her on board.
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