Brought Home

after Raymond Souster

It was the CNR
pulled us to Toronto,
a train of drunken airmen
whose faces are mirrored
on the red-slicked lips
of home, the lubricous link
motion of the train
dies as the strained
eyes of the platform search
for the boys.

And looking out
the rain-spotted window
I almost see a face
a caped grand man
his linkboy at his side.
I turn to the last bottle
and leave it,
I am home now
a mislaid veteran
in Union Station havoc
leaning quiet and alone.