CALL ME BELOVED

I’m eighteen, we make mom drive us
back to the train station. Black sky,
December clouds, blizzard nearly in.

The difference in passenger seats –
ostensibly grown – really, I’m back
to those feral, youngest days

when dad was angry, or drunk
(did they ever surface apart?)
his fury worked the gas pedal, now

I’m eighteen and think, maybe
parents can be wrong. Never felt right;
kids can’t always be disappointments

The difference in passenger seats –
hours later, across state borders,
eighteen and first feeling family

because dark skies are snowing, now
and I am inept, gripped by fear
as tires skid mostly homeward, and

the wonder of being greeted at the station;
not just some parcel, but welcome,
the difference in passenger seats when

maybe, you think, I could stay here,
keep gathering passengers, safe and warm
together in the back, skidding gently home