WEBVTT

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And this is the title
poem from Your Father

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on the Train of Ghosts.

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We had different rules as we
did this project over 16 months,

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as we wrote poems
back and forth.

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It was call and response.

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And one of the
rules at one point

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was that the title each
new poem could only

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be composed of words
that had already

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occurred in the titles
of all the other poems up

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to that point.

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So we had poems about kittens.

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And we had poems about museums.

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And we had poems about
buildings on fire.

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And it was only a
matter of time before we

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had poems about museums
full of kittens on fire.

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And this is not that poem.

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That poem did not
go in the book.

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It had to go away.

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But at one point we
were trading titles.

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And it was John that came out
with this title, your father

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on the train of ghosts.

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And he thought it was funny.

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He laughed out loud.

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And I said, no, say that again.

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And he said it again.

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And I said no that's real.

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I think that's real.

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And moreover, it's mine.

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Because that was the
other rule at that point

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was that one of us would have
the title and the other person

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would write the poem.

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So this is "Your Father
on the Train of Ghosts."

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Your father steps on
board the train of ghosts.

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You watch him from the platform.

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Somehow, he doesn't look as
old as you expected him to be.

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You think this must have
something to do with the light

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or maybe how much
bigger the train is.

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It stretches down
the track a long way,

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as far as your
eyes can make out.

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It's like a black bullet that
keeps speeding toward you.

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You think and then no.

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It's like a very long train.

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That's all.

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Some were on board the train,
your father is choosing a seat.

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Maybe, he's already found
one, has settled in,

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picked up a magazine
or newspaper someone

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else left lying there, is
flipping through it idly.

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Maybe he's looking out
the window for you.

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You would like to think.

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Only, you'll never see it,
because of the reflected glare.

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Or maybe he's not
looking for you at all.

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Maybe he's watching
the hot air balloons

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that have just appeared
all over the sky, ribbed

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like the airborne hearts of
all the giants Jack killed.

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In the stories,
Jack has no father.

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This would explain
a lot, you are

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thinking, as the train
begins to pull away.

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His misplaced affections
stealing the harp of gold

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that played all by itself.

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Around you men and
women and children

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are standing on the
platform shouting,

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waving, hugging themselves.

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The wind is cold.

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It must be March.

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You would want that kind
of music if you were Jack,

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wouldn't you?

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I shared that poem to my
father and his response was,

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I'm not dead yet.

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[LAUGHTER]

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I'm aware of that.

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