THE PILOT LIGHT
Trains do not run at Poro Point, China Sea’s north sentinel,
But I always recall midnight trainrides going back home:
They would crane their necks out for a distant light, however
Late it took for this rickety, dank, dingy, and dark charger
To arrive at its last station in San Fernando. He is home.
Único hijo, niño bonito, Salvador del nombre muerto.
When I saw her last, she asked: Did you take that long ride
On the midnight train? You should have waited for us
To meet you at the station. You should have called.
Where is your father? Did anyone meet you there at all?
The train does not come here anymore was a kind answer
I thought I would have said, but I kept as quiet as his sepia
Portrait on the wall. I tore away to a space of intense cold
And stillness, so deep the trains cannot be heard.
That was the lad of lost years grown beyond these tears,
The kisses on her hands were those of a shrivelled man
Gone back to retrieve promises that remain unkept:
I will be back on all those midnight trains. I will be back.
Here, on my hammock hour, on a cold cabin porch,
I catch a cardinal flicker like a pilot light under the bridal
Wreath bush and espy the blurred distant light of a cargo
Train pushing through the looming blizzard.
— ALBERT B. CASUGA
Intense cold, and a stillness so deep the trains can barely be heard. A cardinal flickers like a pilot light under the bridal wreath bush.---Dave Bonta, Morning Porch, 1-22-11(http://www.morningporch.com/)