Poems at the Station

            there is time and hopefully           
            a train
                          —Lee Mallory
 
6:57 a.m.
 
Outline of a white oak stretched
on the sidewalk by the depot--
this shadow stayed as the frontier
gave to concrete below it.
 
10:30 a.m.
 
Bony child on the cup
and two dollars clang in.
The world is broken
and fixed every instant.
 
1:18 p.m.
 
Overtime and the state team
sets at the 10-yard line.
Time called. A tear shed?
Even police crowd the TV.
 
4:03 p.m.
 
Feet move around
the unscratched lottery ticket.
Behind them the toddler
stomps twice on every crack.
 
7:15 p.m.
 
Composer’s face on magazines
and three headsets play the concerto.
Every great thought
like a syringe into the universe.
 
11:59 p.m.
 
Obituary shows on
the front page through the dispenser.
One fewer set of ears
will recognize the whistle.


     Published in Angels in Seven (Moon Tide Press, 2016)