by Christopher Raley



The train comes through town after midnight.
Always has. Long moan on whispered shuffle
echoes up the eastern rim of valley.

In that old house where I was a young man,
on a narrow street winding with the course
of summer’s draining creek, we sat on the porch,

waiting. When that whistle blew we ran,
ran across lawn, ran in heat thickened darkness,
ran for those clanging heralds, those straight arms

dropping, ran to beat the blurring discs of white . . .
But I’m wrong. It was Matt and Dave who ran.
Stillness slept cradled in limbs of giant

oaks, sightless and unseen canopies
tangled over the place I remained



©Photo Credit C. Raley

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