CABOOSEMAN

In a country without good-byes,

the train doesn’t slow down at the station

for a small boy’s eyes

to catch up to its clatter,

but as I hurtle by I see

his hand wave when he spots me.

Standing at the back of the caboose,

I see everything the train passes by;

if I could reach my eyes further

into the distance before me,

I would never lose sight of the past.

On the station platform,

the boy stays angled, looking

into the fresh snow

that falls between us.

From under his cap, he watches me

quickly diminished by the very future

I avoid, not turning around.

To him, I’ve become an apparition;

escaped from the convergence

of time with space,

I float through wet air’s warp,

hands parting frontward

and head turned downwards, flutter-kicking

across the thick, white vertical lines

that drive past me, obliterating

horizontals.

Each instant a snowflake touches

ground below me, I see a soul

escape up, joining in

an invisible traffic

equal in mass and density

to the downfall.

These souls climb the falling snow,

grasping each flake.

Not one goes untouched.

As soul after soul moves upwards,                                   

their triangular yellow outlines bleed

into brightness.

In some, I can still faintly see

the blue circles and red squares

their shimmering contains,

like memories.

Mine have weighed me down.

I feel them tug me back onto the train,

and I am sped away.

                    - for Kit Donnelly