Michael J. Vaughn

Love Song, Mute

Crossing half the country tongue in teeth, my seatmate a
dark-haired woman, two kids, no ring

She tucks her daughter's bangs and says,
"We're going to Indiana, honey,
to live with Grandma."

I settle for being a good neighbor,
use my uncle-tricks on the
boy with the Spiderman slippers
("Can you shoot webs from your feet?")

Spend long hours in the lounge car
so she can nap across both seats

Half-drowsing Nebraska I
marvel at her songs of admonition,
a soothing Hoosier drawl.

"Now honey.
Try to get some sleep."

At Chicago I want to help I
offer some weak directionals but I
am the half-stranger who
doesn't even know her name who

doesn't even know we have
boarded the same train until she
raps on my window in South Bend.

She gives a sad smile, kids at her side
bundled up like packages.

I wave as we roll away,
the stifled question, my only gift
building a nest in the back of my throat.