boxcar funeral parlor

the prairie became an extension of the city

thanks to the railroad

so finding solitude was easy,

in the yard steaming hot

through haze cyclops diesels

rumbled threatening inert freight,

a man nimble over tracks

knew passage between the lines

many years spent here

living on the perimeter,

where boxcars became brittle and fell apart,

it was here he served god

and those others displaced,

god was an argument for cheap whiskey

and sorry nights,

the others came to him

as in his throat he had words and lyrics

written in his own hand,

his boxcar a place for the dead

those whose limbs had ceased in all exhaustion,

he spoke sermon gave a sense of rapture

then would take each body out

to that solitude for burial,

wind caught and burned faces

heaven a casual component,

the sky a vault

and mountain halls echoing nature,

love had evaded him for so long,

passion cast upon the train

making right for those about,

even in slumber he did not crave

the early life that was chest deep in darkness,

fellow man and a swirl of small favors

cleansed his sanity,

he labored as a persistent mouse

to save the dead from further disgrace,

and hoped his dust would find

the same



smile i’ll remember forever

train skin

wore graffiti colors,

glass reflected eyes and faces,

buskers guitar

held long notes,

platform grey expanse

tactile under shoe,

bag under arm

pressed on board,

smell of air freshener

an attempt to find springs odor

yet came across as dull

and antiseptic,

coarse fabric seats

fabric mottled color

designer rooted in the 70’s,

each jolt of the carriage

added to the queasy feeling,

anticipation already riddled

body with tremors

cell phone ring

not the same but similar,

it would be ok,

station came closer,

on this station plaza

life would be reaffirmed,

as my father

seen for the first time

since my ride on the