Train Whistle Far from Town, ApproachingGerry LaFemina
Dawn on the neck of a broken bottle there on the train tracks through the woods so that, lit up this way, deep green & brilliant, the shards have an almost alien beauty as if they’ve been dyed in light. If such days have a flavor, would they taste of vanilla or honeysuckle or Chardonnay? Would they taste of her shampoo & sweat? More bitter? All night I’d battled nostalgia while the wind along the rails sounded like a harmonica, sudden blues that hinted of Chicago. There’s been too much loss for me to walk laughing into first light, so I’ll just sit, here in the living room & wait for another train to rattle these walls. Somewhere the Gatsbies of this world are hosting their grand parties. Still, the boxcars carry echoes of their laughter & carry the good hoboes, too, who have forsaken jobs cashiering gas stations, & heartache, & kitchen floors needing to be scrubbed, traded them for metronomic rail wheels. Such times when the train slows as it curves through town, I need to imagine them carousing while they warm their hands in the glow of green glass, & beneath that joy the undeniable silence that marks despair. In spite of myself I want to call to them believing, finally, I have found my people.
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