Because of the Train
In memory of Bloke Porter
We have twenty minutes till dawn.
For at least twenty and twenty years
I have worked in night.
All the night. In all the nights.
Even though no one knows
or knew about it.
Nearly now
we can go
like many things
go away. Shrills cuss words in utterances.
Mean letters coldly aligned
shutter then lie down.
Though we pant in grey resultant.
Because of the train.
Ennui in we in soaked silence
who smile
with wisdom of the fish bolts.
As Romance and Old Visions of Rome
land
in our seats.
We know nothing of these people.
Because of the train.
Iced auburn rails against the rails.
All of them so sweetly. I cannot begin to count
the burns. Our assumed words
burned into our ears because we wasted not
our time. In hour's midnight.
Because of the train.
Soon birches will bend for
in smile of us, even when lights
release glitter ash
minus
moment
plus, my soul.
Blessed is thy soul.
Because of the train.
In spite of no solace. We worked.
And this too. This is what
I, too, remembered.
Because.
Dr. Ernest Williamson III has published creative work in over six hundred journals. His poetry has appeared in over two hundred journals including The Roanoke Review, Pinyon Review, Review Americana, Aroostook Review, Poetry, Life & Times, and Westview. Currently, Ernest lives in Nashville, Tennessee.
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