Sometimes she lets the baby cry
to watch her oldest boy
with his small hands winding wooden trains
over the bridge, up by the wrecking yard,
down past the lake and pine trees.
Through his imaginary countryside
they travel on two tracks, careless Mommy
takes charge of the passenger cars
while he handles the freight.
She fears her derailment would make him happy,
concedes to a collision.
No one dies, he reassures her, just a few
get hurt.