The night is black,
The train speeds on its track,
Now it tunnels cliffs,
Now it crosses water,
Now above the vale it lifts,
Now along the river,
Again within the city,
Then in the village center.

Again amidst the blackest black
Where only night is sitting,
The train speeds on its track,
Chug-chug, chug-chug,
Jug-jug, jug-jug.
To its sound my thoughts are fitting,
Chug-chug, chug-chug,
Jug-jug, jug-jug.

Where will you carry me, I wonder?
Please set me down in Paradise.
To Eden’s garden take me back.
But whatever place it be,
upon whatever track,
I do not care, for you bear
My very dearest here with me.

In South Philadelphia the b-ball hoops
in the playgrounds and parks mostly had no nets,
no nets on the rims—they’d been stolen
or ripped down after being torn by leaping teenagers.
When my son was a boy the difference mattered
because he loved basketball, he loved the Sixers,
he loved shooting baskets and there is beautiful satisfaction
when a good shot falls through the net—
“Swish” we said—“Nothin’ but net”—
and so as I moved around town I always noticed
where the hoops had nets
so Nick and I could shoot there.

The difference mattered.  Life should be a certain way
but often the right way becomes unavailable—
the nets disappear—you have to be alert
to find the courts where a perfect shot really does go
swish.  Life has disappointments
but you don’t want your boy to feel that life is
mainly or mostly disappointing
or that the Sixers on TV are absurdly far from his real life—

because he needs to believe
that life allows moments of sublimity—swish—

so even now when Nick is almost forty
wherever I see good intact nets on the rims
I make a mental note for half a second:
Nick and I could play here.
The difference matters.