A memory of a train whistle

I sit near my window
every night and press my
right ear to the glass
waiting to hear that
low dull hum.
A drum and clack,
then the aftermath of
it's fervor, deadened
and bewildering.

There were mornings
when used to hear it
as I saw my father leave
the house and walk towards
his car, unaware I watched
from a story above. But
as years passed, I heard
it less and less, until I
no longer heard a thing.
Now my mornings I sit
and wait, hoping, wishing
for one last train whistle.