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Now reading
April 5, 1968
ALAN WILLIAMSON
APRIL 5, 1968
The car lights: carrying white candles at noon . . . "I
Can't, till I know what it means," my father said; when
I guessed, he said nothing and flicked the switch.
The West Side came at us, shellshocks of sunlight, gray
Shafts of bay windows rising empty as pillars
At Hue, at Persepolis . . . Englewood Station: indefinite
Spaces, a few quiet, aging Negroes propped
Like lead soldiers at the windowledges. Pressure
Moistened my eyeballs. We watched America's Mainline
Narrow, the sidings stacked like needles, switches
Sizzling in the distance. The train pulled in unannounced
With most of the blinds down. An albino Coast Guard
Who looked seventeen was playing the role of porter.
"You're real lucky we stopped at Englewood-they think
There'll be trouble. Was that your father waving? No,
Don't lift the shade." He grinned at me, shy and happy
To be useful in his night, in the gunmetal belly
That jerked us into motion, helpless as shot.