The house holds its breath
and waits for the train
to pass, for the hysterical wailing
to subside into silence. Angry
when you first had sex
that that was it, what all the fuss
was about, if you could call that sex.
The house makes a big fuss
about the photos on its mantle, the gray
smear of an ultrasound,
if you could call that an ultrasound.
The train is sentimental. You know trains,
always dragging their feet, longing
to go back and change things.
