I came down the drive tonight
just before the rainstorm
and the lamp was on
and the fan moving thick air through the front room
and you weren’t home.
You’d taken the train to the sea
then a steamship across
and were walking Berlin in 1943
and the bikes were ringing under the bombers
(and I was jealous).
You’d been whisked up into the war
but there was hope, too
and love letters to a prisoner
and a thin string of light under the iron door
and it was like the lamp tonight
Well, I had to step inside
so that you looked up
and I realized I’d broken the spell
and the sparking halt had thrown you off the train
and then the rain started up.