By Billy Collins
The boy at the far end of the train car kept looking behind him
as if he were afraid or expecting someone
and then she appeared in the glass door of the forward car and he rose
and opened the door and let her in
and she entered the car carrying a large black case
in the unmistakable shape of a cello.
She looked like an angel with a high forehead and somber eyes and her hair
was tied up behind her neck with a black bow.
And because of all that, he seemed a little awkward in his happiness to see her,
whereas she was simply there, perfectly existing as a creature with a soft face who played the cello.
And the reason I am writing this on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together
is to tell you that when she turned to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,
I saw him looking up at her and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted
when they are looking up at God when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.
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I had a fairly quiet Wednesday so I have not much to blog about. I was going to go see whether Five Below or Tuesday Morning had heating blankets and/or cardboard scratching pads for the feline members of the family, one of whom is still out of sorts about eating and I can't tell whether Daisy's stomach is off or she misses Daniel -- even Effie has been sleeping on his bed, which she never does.
Evening TV included The Masked Singer, on which it remains so ridiculous that Patti LaBelle went home before whoever the Thingamajig is (they're voting off brilliant black women right and left while keeping mediocre men) and Stumptown (NO DEX NO). We need to catch up on Black Lightning before the Crisis starts. From Brookside Gardens' holiday train display, this is Glen Echo Park:
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