#4

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

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