Destination, nursing school.
Standing on the platform at the station.
My mind reviews its list
again
and again:
arrangements in place,
the tiny sum of unused wedding money
wired to the head nurse,
thick coat,
warm hat,
gloves with no holes,
which should get any girl through a year of study,
though they barely reach the wristbones,
and, of course, a complete meal and two snacks:
hard-boiled eggs, a hunk of cheese, two heels of bread,
a bit of ham, and a jar of milk.
Someone snuck in a wedge of last night’s pie.
Leave it on the bench.
Pie is not what makes the body go.
No time for mooning and sulking
over what happened to Early
and what’s become of me since,
how stiff and aged.
Prepare for the work
and the cold
and the homesickness, should it come—
pride and frailty,
nonsense.
Bring the return ticket
Daddy bought
to the caged window
for a refund.
The cashier pushes the fare
through the glass
without a word.
Home?
Loved it once
but won’t be coming back.