An operatic plunge
before a fast-moving train
on a slow-moving Sunday
a week before
our first real snowfall.
Everything fades
He will only remember
the screeching and shrilling
of steel wheels on steel track
the squealing of
brakes like five hundred
half-strangled piglets.
The hum of the third rail
has its own siren song
should one choose to listen.
Child-like hopes
weaved by child-like adults
in summer camp bracelets.
Fifteen, fit, freckled
and fast.
No comments:
Post a Comment