I graph the points I’ve touched along railroad tracks;
by Tim Gavin
among stones and broken ties I count my losses.
My gains, reflected in muddy puddles,
criss-cross the ruts laid by work trucks.
The days of steam and iron intrigue me;
I’m in the wrong age;
I pick a wildflower,
a blue phlox, I think, and hold it
to align myself with the untamed.
Tantalized by infinity, I could walk forever, but a whistle,
a metal clack rolls toward me and passes on
as the train curves out of reach.