Leaving the Station

We slowly roll from the platform, green metal tankers absorb

the golden sun.

Where does the red in the light come from?

Why does the end of the day bring

clarity?

The buttery light loves the

iron couplings

the grey stained concrete, and

slicks against the surface close as morning

toast.

The broken windows of the Good Samaritan Center

flash orange beside

whitewashed brick and idle

dump trucks.

Old warehouses weep paint.

Corrugated tin runs with rust.

I think the sun is in its playground.

Sage waves on rooftops, coal humps in the shadows, diagonal steps descend fat silos

Underneath it all clank! clank! clank! the train wheels.

Then silence as we enter the trees,

the slanting light caught in the leaves,

held

cupped

as it decides whether to leave or stay

in transition.

 

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