A quick one-two blast
of Joseph’s whistle
tells me his engine is pulling into the train yard
and he is eager for his dinner.
I stir the big pot of potatoes
and wish for some variety.
The eldest on my hip,
I put the kettle on for tea.
Joseph’s womenfolk can read the leaves in a teacup
the way farmers can read the skies.
I wish they would come
and read a nice bit of mutton in my future,
but, sure enough, they’ll read another baby.
My body always runs on schedule
just like the trains.