Posted in short shorts, tagged canoe, choo-choo, crickets, dusk, fire, lake, lincoln, michigan, train, water on May 5, 2009 |
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“What do you think you’d call that?” I ask my nephew.
“I don’t know, a horn?” he says putting together a Lincoln log cabin.
There is a train far off that you can hear every evening when dusk sweeps in, the time before dinner is cooked, after you have the lake water showered off and the canoe is put away, the time that everyone is ten pages into the next chapter or five moves in each to the chess game, another log just got tossed onto the fire and the crickets have just started singing. It’s then that you hear the train.
“No,” I say. ”Horn is too harsh. It’s softer than that, more nostalgic, like a remembrance of something lost.”
He stares at me blankly through his thick kid glasses, his hair sticking straight toward the ceiling, lake water and sand still there. ”You’re right. It’s not a horn,” he says.
“Not a horn,” I say.
“It’s a choo-choo.”
“Yeah, a choo-choo.”
And he’s back to his log cabin as the train is far off and fading.
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Posted in poetry, tagged dusk, poetry on January 23, 2009 |
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There was the time we were both
as they closed the restaurant,
promising to give us two months pay
to find something.
We both took the news the same way,
with a walk down the street
to the tobacco shop.
We both sat on the bench outside, rolled a cigarette each
and smoked it.
We waited there, almost for the other to react,
knowing he wouldn’t.
And then we sat after the cigarettes,
waiting for the other to offer a suggestion.
I put my arm around her in a way that doesn’t say much and she
leaned up against me in a way that says less.
We watched for a while like that,
down by the stream and the sunset behind the trees.
She looked at it for a while it set.
Right at the sun she looked.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“Not really,” I said.
“You want to go to the ten buck sushi place?”
And we waited for the other to get up and
it was dusk now.
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