train

like old coal trains on

rickety tracks, the days

of my soul are growing

shorter. steam trumpets

sound the warning of

my seasons coming. i’m

carrying heavy bones

up the elkhorn grade.

i’ve taken my rest on

flat top mountain. i’ve

written my poetry on

the downhill runs.

“slow train coming,”

plays inside my brain.

lucky am i to be a poet.

lucky am i to be a train.

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