My window on the upper tier reflects me
in a double image peering into early darkness 
and the backs of houses snugged in silent 
rows along the track.  

The hymn of wheel on steel rises at the crossing 
near Naperville station—warning lights like ventricles, 
pulsing our approach.  The doors hiss open.   
New passengers with workday bundles murmur in 
and sort into customary seats.  One of the last to board, 

slim and blonde, she looks to be in her twenties,
in slacks and gray sweater.  She takes the little half-seat 
facing me—the one at the top of the steps.  Not a regular.  
Turns sideways on the seat; puts her feet into the aisle. 
Avoids eye contact.  Passing Downers Grove, 

she swings around and from her purse 
draws a large envelope, pinches back the silver clasps,
spreads its contents in her lap: an obituary;
a death certificate; an insurance claim form;
then another.  Holding them up, 

she compares one against the other, 
her small fingers at eye-level.  She signs both, 
looking at her watch both times to date her signature.
A last look, hesitant, and biting a corner of her lip, 
sighs everything back into the envelope.  For a time 

she pulls her knees up to her chest, feet on the seat, 
hands clasped at the ankles.  The uneven stretch 
of track at La Grange rocks her side to side. 
She unfolds slowly, like a desert flower.  
Tracing the lines of her left palm, she stiffens 

at the touch of the gold band; spins it briefly on her finger; 
slips it off; cups it.  One hand folds around the other.  Her hair 
falls forward across her shoulders as she places the ring inside her purse.  
Snaps it shut.  She stares at the approaching skyline, 
pale face floating in the glass.  	 

The train bumps its halt at Union Station and the doors 
hiss open. As I retrieve my coat, she descends the steps, 
slips back into the stream of passengers flowing into the city.

I am like their father 
And know them for their short while
Show them to the world
And at the end of the day
I live inside my paintings