He lay on the
tracks, waiting
for the two-fifteen from Toronto.
A faint vibration ran through the rails,
distant voices whispering truths to him
which he could not quite hear. |
|
|
Cool steel beneath
his neck
soothed, comforted under sky gray,
air heavy with pain.
The pain of a thousand years of living |
|
alone, |
captured inside
himself
like a featherless bird, unable
to break out of its shell. |
|
|
The voices grew
louder,
certain words reaching his ears.
Voices of angels, angry, challenging
him to rise up from the tracks. |
|
|
| "Why don’t
they help me?" |
|
|
His body was pinned
to the intersection
of tie and rail.
The spikes burned hot through the flesh
of his hands and feet. |
|
|
"Father, let
this cup pass from my lips.
I am not responsible for these sinners." |
|
|
An old blues tune
passed through his head--
"Beggin’ an’ cryin’ won’t help you . . ." |
|
|
It would be another
thousand years
before the two-fifteen arrived. |
|
|
| He would wait. |