You, in your washed out blue jeans and

ragged old shirt, lie around

in the tall grass by the railway ties,

smoking cigarettes,

wishing

for boxcars and the opportune moment

to jump on, 

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

elsewhere.

And you remember your life

in suitcases:

great adventures prepared for and packed up,

but never taken, closed now,

like coffins.

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.

~

~

~ 

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Apprentice Editor: Guenevere Neufeld / Editor: Emily Bartran

Photo: Flickr / Ben Thomson