The Train Set
It sits so still,
Unwitnessed, unused, unloved.
And under a gifted Christmas tree,
The phantoms of children
That never were
Mill around,
Reaching and grabbing at the carriages,
Spinning the transformer controls
With little hands
That pass through the solidity
Of the set’s atomic lattice.
Perplexed, they step back and skip away,
Fading into their own perspective’s horizon.
Breathing in, all I can do to contain our sadness,
Is kneel down,
Reposition the locomotive,
And hope that it might travel
Around the track
Were someone to show up,
And claim the title of childhood.
- A title – still open.
Staked to the floorboards of our home,
Below the perpetual legacy
Of Christmas times crafted,
By both, me and my wife.