coming home

shouts didn't really matter: he
rushed down steps to see a train
taking his luggage home, bending
inevitable metal around long corners. between
distant trains, our lipid air hangs heavy
with growing iron rust and oily rail
silence. his pocket-thrusting hands recalled
only travel-suppressed memories: his
brown wallet in the faded green satchel
sat alone on a window seat eyed by that woman
up the aisle and the mustached conductor plying his
trade. "well, shit," dusted his chest with cheap
revenge on luck; his pacing platform vigil
discovered last week's paper. he cursed
his station, pitched burnt cigarettes into the track,
blamed trains, schedules, conductors: the whole
outdated system of inconvenience. but
quietly when night limped over that bend
on down the line, he sat on dirty tiles
confessing guilt. nothing changed.
but he made the bench his bed with an inky paper blanket;
powerless yellow guilt for a welcome home.




7/26/08