Idle Trains Easing
through the East Main fog with eyes as brown as rusty mufflers smacked against the salty curb she lifts her tiny dancer’s feet till the carwash, the armory &
the lockshop have all passed
by. Like
a sliver of the universe unfilled she disappears beyond the viaduct where pigeons sleep like corn-stuffed ghosts &
boxcars creek like a deaf girl’s moan behind idle trains of the orange night as she turns the key, as she unlocks the door. As she takes off those small pink boots it lies beside her like a pool of rain upon the ground. [Published in Prairie Falcon. © 1989 by Jim
Cohn.] |
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