The thought of a train
plunging through the sheathing of this bus, hot screams & soft steel rivets escaping
awakens me from half hearted slumber
with a start.
I must have gotten rest, I suppose
seeing as my blood is cool to the touch, bones refraining from ache.
Lifting eyes to houses along this east side boulevard
I discover it is only winter, nothing more.
Even as my gaze remains fixed, these wheels roll on
causing the backround to shift; I find that I have to keep changing positions
just to stay fixed upon the same point of charred lumber.
But that too passes, swallowed up somewhere "behind".
The image of that house long remains, somewhere burried in my mind,
one built of strong hands & immigrant care.
Proud. Tall. Giving in only to moisture or reprise.
However, it too has also burned, flames dancing in the midnight sky.
Now sits, a sigh; husk of its former life,
surprised that it could survive just one more day of snowfall.
As if houses could feel such things.
Its windows catch my eyes while my face alights in its glazed pitch
for this one brief second; a glance between strangers.
And in that moment, so many sad slow stories pass.
Perhaps they were always fiction,and never will have a chance to be.
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