Restaurant Car

He stood
And tipped his hat
Down toward soup
Of depth and zest
As good a Polish uncle’s
He never possessed
On the table in front
In the restaurant car
With steel spoon
In one
And glass pint
In one
To prevent sliding past
Conversations
Parked themselves in sidings
The track wound quickly
Old wounds healed slowly
The folks reheated
And poured and blew
In and out the carriage
On windows
The trees they drew
Straight lines
Battleship greys and
Army hues
And under that hat
Last week
Seemed autumn 1972