In the March darkness of the almost
dawn, he is waiting for a train
and regretting the bottle and a half of wine
he drank in front of the television last night—
watching a cop show, of all things,
in which the criminals are always caught,
but not before murdering or raping
their way into the headlines
he has always been denied. Now
he is surrounded by birds in the clamor
of their spring. There are so many
it’s hard to imagine it means anything
or that they’re even listening. There’s one call
unfamiliar, mixed in like static
to the music of a bad radio—
a faint high treble he could have heard
in any March, if only he had listened,
if only he had risen before the sun
to regret his wine more often
as the world was just getting started. At last
the 6:23 comes barreling into the station
with its giant headlight, its painful horn,
its tormented brakes that somehow stop
the speeding metal he steps into. It cancels out
the birdsong and takes him to the place
that, soon enough, will make him
thirsty again, a place with a good excuse
he must strive to keep from hearing.