Trembling, I miss another passing train
At the station where napalm mornings bleed
Through windowpanes, misting shadowed
Crosses on my checkered path ahead. Another
Text buzzes my other home’s news:
If you see something, say something.
Someone sneezes somewhere here, blessed
With nods. Stand clear of the closing doors.
In our missiled church a priest intones
Lord have Mercy in our dying tongue
with a choir of explosions. This station is Fulton
Street. I mission for my keys, trembling.
Back in class on the first day,
Students shout, “We missed you, Mister A!”