The Voice

the downtown train station sparkled at noon

as six or eight passengers lugged bags

across a grand gleaming room.

you sat shrouded by a favorite cloud

of ongoing gloom, tears like winter rain

washed what remained of your departure

too soon to mundane Midwestern towns

with odd names announced with a frown

by a tired black porter in the middle of night

as the train roared along.

and do you recall that he offered you a song

as you pulled in to Omaha; reluctantly you

relented, grinned shyly, as he belted forth

loudly in the aisle, a generous Pavarotti

lifting your mood, and how he sang

with great soul for hours until daybreak

in Chicago, all the while his eyes laughing,

beguiling, with a sweet voice off track,

completely out of tune?