6158. ENDLESS TRACKS

ENDLESS TRACKS

The fledgling moments surface. We are 

in the prime of our lives, waiting. The

strange, grouped snare of allegiance

tempts the ground beneath us, calling

for the end of variations. We are

not ourselves.

-

If only the debate would end. Call us,

but away. (Then  -  we say  -  there'd

be a retribution, a calling in of cards).

All those people, they're at the station,

waiting for a train today : reading books

and papers, waiting, carrying briefcases

and peering to the distance for what they

know will come. Women, wearing rolled

down socks and running shoes. Men in

three-piece suits. All just waiting

for the train.

-

There are histories in eyes that readers

of the soul can recognize. See, quickly,

and they cannot get away. This was,  

once, already our promised land.

-

From the train the sights abound : rows of

houses, old buildings and lots, Jewish graves

along the highway  -  Hebrew letters, and little

glass globes with photographs that blur. Tiny

houses built of stone, but for the dead, beneath

the Budweiser sign. The dead we have with

us always; let us drink to that?

-

The metal bridge here breaks the waterway

to get us all from place to place. Like both the

living and the dead (whichever we may be),

we sit it out knowing full well what's coming.

Looking down the tracks  -  the endless tracks.

Let's roll our socks to that.