OLD MAN AT THE DEPOT

The old man at the depot, once again

Squinting at the tardy evening train,

Clocks it as though it were his rightful place;

But tracks of wagons line his leathery face

And arch his shoulder bones and rope his hands,

Yet never shake the creed on which he stands,

Absurd and lonely, and as loath to bend

As that one stalk of grain sown by the wind

Atop the depot in this lonesome town

Where no one coaxed it up or cut it down.

But winter with its weight of ice and rain

Inevitable will bend unbending grain;

The train will whistle past an empty door,

And the station will be smaller than before;

Then an engineer on an evening run

Will slowly head into the setting sun.

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BRIEF RAIN

She leans forward

into the faded light,

as this rainy day

drags across her guitar strings

in minor key.

Old forgotten chords

from her repertoire of pain

whisper on the fretted keys

accompanied

by rain.

Somewhere along the night

the mute guitar,

with this new hurt,

will hang on the wall,

then tomorrow, she will listen

for your call.

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Incident

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �Wonder sparred with disbelief

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �For in noon's midget hour

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �Inside my auto had appeared

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �An iridescent tower.

�

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �A spider in a spider world

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �Was spinning tediously

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �To build a home, to weave a dream

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �Of rainbow filligree.

�

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �A gust of wind shook tower walls

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �And prisms in the sun

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �Danced quietly then fell apart;

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �Another dream was done.

�

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �All day I thought of brittle dreams

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �That one wind can erase,

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �And swiped at bits of gossamer

� � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � � �That lingered on my face.

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