the crying

at one end of the train
a baby is crying.
there is nothing
the mother can do
to make it stop.
it's late at night.
anyone asleep is now
awake, the car is
nearly dark as it rolls
in its seesaw motion
down the tracks. outside
the lights of the world
flash by in white streaks,
the red and yellow
dots of signs, the blue
smudges of commerce.
the low rises of houses
bunched in rows,
the beaten fields of
cars abandoned. stray dogs.
you want to think
the baby is crying for
a reason, but how
would he, or she,
at this young age know.