And this is the title poem from Your Father
on the Train of Ghosts.
We had different rules as we did this project over 16 months,
as we wrote poems back and forth.
It was call and response.
And one of the rules at one point
was that the title each new poem could only
be composed of words that had already
occurred in the titles of all the other poems up
to that point.
So we had poems about kittens.
And we had poems about museums.
And we had poems about buildings on fire.
And it was only a matter of time before we
had poems about museums full of kittens on fire.
And this is not that poem.
That poem did not go in the book.
It had to go away.
But at one point we were trading titles.
And it was John that came out with this title, your father
on the train of ghosts.
And he thought it was funny.
He laughed out loud.
And I said, no, say that again.
And he said it again.
And I said no that's real.
I think that's real.
And moreover, it's mine.
Because that was the other rule at that point
was that one of us would have the title and the other person
would write the poem.
So this is "Your Father on the Train of Ghosts."
Your father steps on board the train of ghosts.
You watch him from the platform.
Somehow, he doesn't look as old as you expected him to be.
You think this must have something to do with the light
or maybe how much bigger the train is.
It stretches down the track a long way,
as far as your eyes can make out.
It's like a black bullet that keeps speeding toward you.
You think and then no.
It's like a very long train.
That's all.
Some were on board the train, your father is choosing a seat.
Maybe, he's already found one, has settled in,
picked up a magazine or newspaper someone
else left lying there, is flipping through it idly.
Maybe he's looking out the window for you.
You would like to think.
Only, you'll never see it, because of the reflected glare.
Or maybe he's not looking for you at all.
Maybe he's watching the hot air balloons
that have just appeared all over the sky, ribbed
like the airborne hearts of all the giants Jack killed.
In the stories, Jack has no father.
This would explain a lot, you are
thinking, as the train begins to pull away.
His misplaced affections stealing the harp of gold
that played all by itself.
Around you men and women and children
are standing on the platform shouting,
waving, hugging themselves.
The wind is cold.
It must be March.
You would want that kind of music if you were Jack,
wouldn't you?
I shared that poem to my father and his response was,
I'm not dead yet.
[LAUGHTER]
I'm aware of that.