the track not taken

the tracks behind grandma’s would come to life

two or three times a day,

dragging us from the wiffle ball gravel lot

or from seeking and hiding in Uncle Bob’s garden

behind the garage

to count cars always waiting for that Train of Trains

and by our teens we would walk them as far as our feet

and fear would allow, past old warehouses and wrecked and quiet truck yards,

beneath the broken neighborhoods, silently under the mean streets almost

through thick clusters of trees and under bridges

until it felt like Depression Era scenery some stagehands had forgotten about.

I am still fascinated by tracks                                             not so much trains

just tracks –                                                                       they tempt me from the driver’s seat

framed for an instant by a wildflower meadow

before the world becomes billboards again –

rusted and peaceful                                                            endless

here like deer in the foliage                                                quietly ambling behind tall grass

up mid-continent mountains                                               into lizards lying in the cactus sands

(someone watching from the rare shade,

 brimmed hat tipped down)                                                                                                                                                                                                then north

to hear horses give harness bells a shake

and above me my various albatrosses                                 watch me grow weary

as I scuttle from job to job                                                weakened by the sanitizing solution 

in the staff room

scampering                                                               scared to lose my spot on the chain gang.

I am tempted to stop running

just lay myself down gently on the rails

and stop running           

or meander for millennia                                                my soul set free

following the fate of the tracks,

searching for the Ghost of Tom Joad

the spirit of Sal Paradise

and the courage of Buck           

not to find hell or heaven

just to leave this town                                                          and realize the rhythm of boxcar night

and know at last where all those trains were headed.

Notes: Unpublished

For Grandma and Grandpa