Little Lamp

My parents brought me home from the hospital
in the ’69 Oldsmobile.
                                          Crocodile paint. Scent-clouds
of motor oil.
                           They slid
                           between the year just past
                           & the one coming. Back

to their room on Frankfort Ave.
where the train ran parallel
to the street. I learned to sleep

by the sound of its horn.
When it rumbled past
the little lamp flickered
                           in
& out
               like a notion.

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