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.