Suppose my grandmother
whose book I write in
still alive
wrapped in the red shawl
of her ninety-five years
fake flowers on her grave.
Suppose she had never been born-
who would have taken her place?
Six children; three his, three hers
seventeen year old young hands full
with mud of the land.
Now consider something or someone
you love is gone forever
or that they simply had not happened-
would you stop to listen
to the sound of a train telling stories
in the rain and in that instant
remember?
- Debbie Calverley
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