Together, they sit. A family of four. The proud parents,
both nursing wine. His beard trimmed. Her hair curled.
They nod, and nod, and nod, as opposite, the son, eldest,
broad shouldered, tells of the job he’s found abroad,
teaching. He says this, he says that, the parents agree,
and the daughter, slightly slumped, mortar board
upturned on the table, says nothing, as if she expected
to arrive at some train station and found there’s no
platform to meet. Another set of tracks runs by,
stretching off, and the next train is delayed,
and her gown is pinched in the sliding doors,
with pigeons pecking the crumbs at her feet.

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