sits on a train
making stories of each passenger.
Always better things to do. But,
submerged in the din of our heritage,
Hello, Harry!
Hello, Larry...
We make it to the pond, its fish,
we’ll come to know in spring,
frozen;
pretty much nearing the invisible now.
I like your scent,
he says to the ghost.
I wasn’t particularly fond of his work,
he calls to his partner.
The train rumbles
past a gymnasium, twilit boys with
sparklers in each hand.
We lost our memories
to the crackling of the ice-blanched grass.
Yes, I believe...
One boy coughs
a complicated cough.
Some of the passengers stir, look around
questioningly.
Push away the trombones from around me,
he whispers.
And hurries into a fragrant sleep.
