This morning the sheep make their way
across the pasture half a continent away.

I’m responsible for my own animal,
so old that she needs me to stay.

The train rattles on between us, though, whether
we take it or not, in its side to side sway.

You’ve butchered a chicken now, sheared
“the girls,” stacked up hay upon hay.

The bike’s been tuned with the money you sent.
The car, broken down, mourns, mute, in the driveway.

If I was there, we’d have such conversation!
Though Tripp would always want us to play.

I hold my own here, check for errors, cross-
references, and adherence to style for pay.

Long letters ping-pong our inboxes,
ponder tomorrow’s inevitable fray.

Ancient spirit talk and new perspectives
keep us going, redefine hope, redefine pray.

Pick a stone to remind you of me, set on your desk.
I’ll picture you asking, “Jan, what do you say?”

Jan Carroll works in local and regional publishing.  She is a poetry reader for the forthcoming local literary journal Barstow & Grand. She assures you 36 straight hours on Amtrak really isn’t that bad. More by Jan.