The Freedom Train

The Freedom Train

The three women have the look of
Those who sit endlessly in airports or train stations
Or on hard benches at bus stops waiting for something to arrive
That will take them anyplace from where they are
Sitting is interrupted by pacing or looking this way and that as if
Briskness of step or fervency of look will bring speed to the freedom train
Number Two leaves the painted wooden bench
Walking rapidly in a stilted rhythm
Up the South Hall across the East down the North
Completing the square while avoiding all lines in the tile
Until five squares are done
Stopping once or twice to peer into rooms as she goes
“Get the fuck out!” says the man on the end
She runs a little then
Returns to the bench, shoulders drooped, head hung low
Asks Number One the time
“I have a Timex,” says Number One “Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’ ”
“Shut your pie hole!” says Number Three

Number One leans in, whispers, “Two fifteen and fourteen seconds.”
Smiles; leaves for her turn around the ward
Remembers a square dance, the sound of fiddling
The tapping of shoes, the polished sheen of the wood floors
A man with cowboy boots and a black hat
Remembers how her petticoats twirled, the whoosh of air against her thighs
Was he her husband?
Stops Mr. Green on the West Hall, says, “Are you my husband?”
“I’m God” he answers, joining in her second lap
“Tell me your sins and you’ll be white as snow.”
“Don’t want to be white or cold.” She says, pulling ahead
Happy when she returns to the bench, having been away so long
“You look lovely today,” she tells Number Three
Who returns the compliment with an evil stare
“The Devil Incarnate, “says Number Two
“Fuck off!” says Three
Then rises, half jogging, half walking on her Olympic course
Mumbling words in a secret code, for luck

Stopping to tie her shoe, finds she has lost nimbleness of hand
Fumbling, slips it off, rearranging the frayed laces
To point directly North and South
In the exact middle of the thirtieth tile on the East Hall
Finishes the course with a lop-sided gait
Up with the shod foot down with the bare
Returns winded, to the bench
“Where’s your shoe?” asks Number Two
“Somewhere between Greece and the Holy Land” she says
Then pauses, asks, “Are those whippoorwills, I hear?”
Fans out her bare toes against the cool tiles like she did in spring grass
While the sun warmed her back in a place where whippoorwills sang
“Those are doves, you old Twit! How can you mistake
Doves for whippoorwills?” Number One asks, and not too kindly
“The same way you think you’re Queen of this Castle,” Number Three says
And they all laugh, wrapping their sweaters in snug around their middles
Picking at strands of gray hair gone awry
“Tea time” says Number Three, “I’m chilled to the bone.”

Number One leads the way, stepping gingerly
Over the East Hall Shoe as if it may
Explode or levitate or multiply into millions
Of tiny, hopping shoes
That can’t be avoided
And all of them hold their breath
Until they reach the nursing station
“Tea” they say to the nurse, a foreigner in their land;
An Intruder of the Worst Sort
They name their flavors; Chamomile, Peppermint
And Cadmium yellow, says Number One
The Intruder, who knows that One
Has the soul of an artist
Makes her Lemon tea with three bags so
The water turns the color of daffodils
The bench sits empty
The shoe points north of Jerusalem
The Freedom Train, late again

Joy Arnett
March 2008