Bent and Beat

late night or early morn
the wind blows hard, breaking like a wave across the butte
and cascading across my house, bearing the smell of changing seasons
my television is playing 26 years ago
those images of my past chronicled for all to see
a train rumbling through town
past decaying and abandoned grain silos
three grey fingers behind the IGA
the balding derelict winos in the derelict hotel smoking and passing their brown bags, nodding sloppily as you ride, careful to avoid the broken glass that litters the corner
the trailer park where my father's friend lived on the outskirts of town,
a huge lumbering man, bearded, backwoods, and brilliant
rolling his joints in the wood stove heated living room of his mobile home
and his daughter who wrote fantasy stores
a quietly intelligent poorly dressed princess
in her aluminum capsule at the edge of an ancient forest
and it's there, lacking the detail,
a departure point for a tired and restless mind
think of trains and home
and you shall get trains and home
i wonder which came first
and of course it is the trains
and home
the derelict covered bridge, new highway built parallel to it
decaying but standing, century old timbers covered with last weekends graffiti
red paint peeling in the summer humidity
the green brown river deep and surging in the gaps beneath your feet
seemingly far and removed yet ever just a fall away
and perhaps i've achieved escape velocity
but have forgotten to account for orbital decay