After Bobby Caldwell
The empty train of it
And the bare and clean of it
The silence of it
The short rides of it
Every lover was a country
a city, a town,
now
hollow I can see, every car to a dot
The eternal journey of it &
the many unavailables
Through the windows the palette this earth offers
You can only see out, but a faint reflection of self
What you won’t do for it…
You turn and a presence, who looks identical
a faint smirk and wave no one else on the train
That cold ice spider climbs up the rungs of
Every vertebrate on your spine, first reaction—run
But you sit there as he slowly approaches you
…but stop
Charles Snyder 