Wilbur Fisk, on the Train

Wilbur Fisk

On The Train

And on the train,

clack,

and clack,

sends me

almost to sleep,

but,

I sneak awake.

A jet carves

sky,

as a train

with wings,

we spy one another,

I’m sure.

Out my window,

weeds lean,

from a push

I cannot see.

A steel bridge

stands in the water,

more of us

drive its back.

The train stops

in Newark,

a cart

sits by itself

on the platform,

loaded with luggage

and no one around.

We leave together

on this train,

past a gutted

ex-factory,

trash on the tracks,

clack

and clack,

lures me.

I lean

toward the window,

and think of

all my years,

wanting to come,

are tears,

I’m confused

as we come

to a stop

at the terminal

of the air.

Just a moment

for our stop,

then clack,

and clack,

scrub shrubs

more trash,

and I go by.

But,

tears

have returned

to their storage.

No stop today

in North Elizabeth,

I thank you for that,

this is a local train,

but not that local,

today.

Vestibules

gather riders,

as ready

to birth them

to proper

stations,

and brakes cry

beneath us,

as they leave

their click clack

mother.

Rip rap hugs

tracks,

as vestibules

spew travelers.

And then,

clack and clack,

we roll again,

those of us that stayed.

The crowd thins

as the train

births her cargo,

the trip ages

as we do,

soon,

I’ll leave,

when the brakes cry

for me.

Clack and clack,

I won’t hear,

just those that

stayed.

Hayward 2006