Whistle Stop
 
Lonesome was a train shrieking
field              to          field,
crossing           to           crossing
Lonesome was eighteen-wheel
brights burning tunnels
in fog to make up for
lost time.
The now and again glint
of a car stealing dark and quiet
on its way to a grave-yard
shift or  hospital or bar.
Maybe gunning it
home or somewhere
might pass.
 
Lonesome was a dog most likely
starving that someone uncaring
chained on hardpan not worth
the fence.  Weeds and a couple
empty plastic bowls.  Hound’s
only saving  grace is  it
can bark  itself  hoarse.  See
the poor thing stretch out a last long
keen.
 
Lonesome was the kind of night
your mother barked Get out
so a stranger could enter
and exit without being seen.
Rain and curb-hugging creeps
led to begging a bed off a friend
who would never stop being snowed
by a jerk with paler skin circling
the key finger.   Grudging yes, but
the two twanged springs ‘til the ceiling
threatened to fall.  Laughed above
the radio so you wouldn’t miss.
What’s with the one thin-ass
cover?
 
Lonesome was waiting
for books to become friends,
print and blank.  Treading past
thirty-something to be able to thrill at
alone shaking hands with a dog.
or   a      long,      slow,       train
i l l u m i n a t i n g   n i g h t.
.

          (c) Phyllis Jean Green, 2007

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