You, in your washed out blue jeans and
ragged old shirt, lie around
in the tall grass by the railway ties,
for boxcars and the opportune moment
which never comes.
You, with your fading green eyes, almost
grey now, like your grandfather’s,
lament the loss of your youth,
and all of the things you did not do.
And all of the things you did do,
while your mind was
And you remember your life
great adventures prepared for and packed up,
but never taken, closed now,
And every night that train comes rolling by again,
under various moon shapes,
and you, with your kerosene lamp and ratty old boots,
are ready to leave it all behind—
but you don’t, somehow.
You trudge back home;
you light the fire;
you brush your teeth and
climb into bed.
Still, every night you awaken
to the sound of chugging—that lonely
horn that shakes you from your slumber—
even though the tracks have been removed
for almost a decade now, and the train
doesn’t come by any longer.
Love elephant and want to go steady?
Apprentice Editor: Guenevere Neufeld / Editor: Emily Bartran
Photo: Flickr / Ben Thomson