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When the war came into the station,
engine cursing, grinding steel,
we all put our children on board.
Father had a brown felt hat,
his broad chest squared in a formal suit.
Mother's red lips smiled under a netted veil.
She was pulling a hankie from her purse
to wipe lipstick from her little boy's cheek.
An address was pinned to his collar.
The whistle screamed Terror! Terror!
Up you go, son!
Hot, loud blasts of grey smoke separated everyone.
I will never forget the little boy's body
scooped into the dark metal car, his arms
stretched out straight like a doll's toward his mother,
nor the clatter of train
fading backwards, fading backwards,
catapulting into the night.
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