The clickety-clack
of the steel rails below me
beats in time
to my pathetic heartbeat
and all too slow wristwatch.
The rush and tumble
of the rail
tosses my insides and
the whiskey in my guts.
Eight hours railing and
another five to go,
and I start to question
my reason to board
the dingy, dirty passenger car:
thirteen hours to tick,
to the neck twitch and
motion sickness,
to see a girl I loved for three hours
and then disappeared.
Right from under my fingertips,
she bled out of town like sand from my hair,
she swallowed distance and the Sun.

Three years later with Sun, moons and smiles,
I'm on the rail to Boston
to smell your hair and swallow your voice,
to stand in front of you on a train platform.

And as the faceless brush my arms as they pass,
their shapes and bodies blur to gray
and frame you waiting in brilliance.
We both have swallowed the Sun and
are glowing hot bright yellow.

© Jonathan Dumas, 2006 (all rights reserved)