I’m waiting for the locomotive and its chain
of clacking boxcars and caboose to roar
around the corner of Daddy’s train board.
Electric smell of friction
and the building fury
of the train as I sit,
as close to the edge
as I dare, pray
it will make the turn but knowing
it sometimes derails right here
in a spectacular screech,
rims sparking metal.
I tie my eyes to the track,
my face nearly touching
as long as I can stand
before it’s coming—
too close,
a scream escapes—
and pull back,
safe.
Since then my sentence
to wait at the edge of dread.
