adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, October 14, 2017

By the Tracks, a poem

By the Tracks

Whether the trains were moving east or west
did not matter; they woke me in the night,
there in her house by the tracks. The rent was low

and that was good enough. That and the pool

where we sometimes skinny-dipped.
East or west — or was it north and south?

Let me orient myself here. Yes, east and west,
parallel to Highway 84, there on the outskirts
of Thomasville. It’s been a dozen years

and memories are a patchwork now, bits sewn
together to make a new picture every time.
When they woke me and I could not sleep again

I wrote and sometimes it was good
and sometimes I threw the pages out, come morning.
She moved on and I moved on, but the trains,

I suspect, still pass by each night and wake
whoever lives in the guesthouse by the tracks
where rent was cheap. And there was a pool.

Stephen Brooke ©2017

Addendum, Mon Oct 16: a couple days later, I saw various changes needed to be made - most of what I post here is early draft and often sees revision

By the Tracks

Whether the trains were moving east or west
did not matter; they woke me in the night,
there in her house by the tracks. The rent was low
and that was good enough. That and the pool

where we sometimes skinny-dipped.
East or west — or was it north and south?
Let me orient myself here. Yes, east and west,
parallel to Highway 84, right on the outskirts

of Thomasville. It’s been a dozen years
and memories are a patchwork now, bits sewn
together to make a new picture every time.
A rumble in the dark; it would pass

as all things are said to do and maybe
that is so. When I could not sleep again,
I wrote and sometimes it was good
and sometimes I threw the pages out, come morning.

She moved on and I moved on, but the trains,
I suspect, still pass by each night and wake
whoever lives in the guesthouse by the tracks
where rent was cheap. And there was a pool.

Stephen Brooke ©2017

Post a Comment