During clear nights on an open roof,
we could hear an empty night train.
Being more quiet, we count each car
clattering across Alley Creek bridge.
All the while, we waited, with self-hate
and twisted the miserable wires our lives.
Fashioning misshapen make-shift antennae,
we both breathe in and yearn to be receptive.
On the edge of the world, our toes in the gutter, we open our eyes.
Arms outstretched, we ask for benediction and soak in silence.
We follow headlamps passing on and under these bridges.
We reflect on water and lose light in trees of a waiting shore.
Always, we leave slowly, processing each step by step
pull and creak, lug our over-loaded box cars away.
We pass over and through, when everyone else is asleep.
A final horn is an eastern amen, calling us back to work.