riding
the rails
we drag our luggage to the station
memories heavy as anvils
past ticket agents scowling at
timetables
the train jerks forward on its usual
run
we watch the station
disappear
fall into the lull of the rocking car
rummage among keepsakes
leaf through tattered photo albums
hum old songs to know what we see
would we ever chance
to be drawn by a late night whistle
sneak through the yards
run toward a slow moving freight
be pulled aboard by a hand
reaching out through a dark door
we might find ourselves
with only the clothes we have
traveling to Ithaca
Richard Lawson