Two Old Crows

A seat open on the Northern Rail,

            the kind that face each other,

            no table between us.

Two women, older, sit together opposite me.

            One keeps dabbing her eyes,

            weepy but not weeping, not really.

But maybe yesterday, or eight years ago,

            or tomorrow.

But for now, she and her friend laugh and smile

            a missing tooth between them,

            and happy.

            They flash that smile at me, too, the same one,

                        familiar as my own soul.

            I watch them leave at Bolton.

I begin to think of Alaska,

            of my Aunt Alice and Aunt Myrtle,

            Aunt Myrtle was a Presbyterian

            Aunt Alice was a pistol.

            Half-blood, mixed blood.

            They didn't say or didn't bother.

            "We're just two old crows," they tell me.

They didn't weep when I saw them,

            their tears hidden . . . or maybe not,

            just there

                                     they might be.

But for now, they drive me around to see where their mom is buried,

            and tell me a story or two.

"Don't think about the past," they say. "It's too sad."

Yet, maybe they do from time to time . . . think about the past.

            But for now, they smile.