Letters

The train pulls out

Two passengers

A father and his son

A father and his country

ride toward the destiny now served

This trip should be an outing

But the crepe-hung windows

hide the gruesome truth

The itinerary

will be a long and somber one

At stationed stops

And all along the way

they will come out

Some will say:

“I’m glad the bastard’s dead!”

Others,

not so sure

will save their comments

for a later date

And some will know,

within their deepest heart

the future will be fraught with a pain

that would not show its face

Were he still here

And they will never

voice their thoughts

about this day

But a nation will mourn this time

as mostly one

Mr. Lincoln going home

To rest in the bosom of The Lord

Along the way they come to see

They come to grieve

Black and white

they share the space beside the rails

And they come to pay respect

Families with children

hushed into obedience

as decorum dictates

There will be whites

who hoped for peace again

And old Black men

their hats in hand

that watched that train recede

And understood

they watched their last best chance

of being “Mister” in their lifetime

Disappear around a bend

Somewhere on that fateful afternoon

Upon a deep-south porch

off an empty road

the men have gathered

Waiting for the evening meal

And when they were called to eat

they rose

And perhaps one,

looking down the empty road

Empty as the promise

Empty as those railroad tracks became

Might say out loud,

as though he spoke to just himself:

“Change gonna come.”

And another.

taking off his hat

as much for Mr. Lincoln as the meal

Half-smiling said:

“Ah, know it will.”

And then they all went in

Praying that

the “...better angels of our nature.”

Would overcome the rancor of the times.

David A. Egan

East Hampton