Cross Country

When the train stops to fuel up,
they have to shut the power down.
You have to use the bathroom
in the dark, have to eye the hole
as the door slides closed, clicks
into the lock. if you're a woman,
you have to squat near where you think
the hole still is, not daring to touch
to make sure. You hover above a rising warmth
and force yourself to pee, not knowing, hoping
your aim is true. When you come out,
a row of kids, their filthy ears
pressed to the metal wall, have been listening,
are still giggling deep in their throats,
their mothers asleep in the hard yellow seats,
nothing left to see but backyards, stacked
car parts, miles of cramped city.
You don't want to look back
but you do, to where they crowd the open door,
the train windows' dirty light seeping in
around their skinny necks. They creep
to the spot you just left
to take in the wild scent: a raw mix
of sweat, excrement and disinfectant.
"Smell it," they whisper to each other,
bumping shoulders in the dark,
their stringy hair and heavy heads
hung forward, toward something they know
they should know, drooped with longing
toward what reminds them of a soft mound
of dirt, the earth, like those flowers
you saw growing too close
to the tracks, bent and trembling
on the outskirts of Detroit. 

© Dorianne Laux