He always said a woman,
Who loved train whistles as he did,
Could not exist,
A woman, separate and apart,
Who could distinguish between them,
Could tell
When they were simply alerting,
Routinely warning or actually crying,
A woman pensive and profound,
Who could read their very thoughts,
When sometimes
In the soundless depths of the night,
They would call and call,
To just about anyone who would listen.

More than once he confided in me,
How even as a boy, he would dream
Of boarding on e of those long distance trains,
That blazed across entire continents,
That crossed enormous masses of land,
And with only a small suitcase or canvas bag
In either hand,
Ride and ride
Without ever looking back,
And ride and ride,
To the sound of train whistles,
Who like him know what it was like,
To be homesick,
With no home in sight.

Jerry Shonda