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Train Wreck
by Lynn Cohen
A damp August day.
Rain beats my memories away.
I match it tear-for-tear.
Turn toward the stalwart stories stored
star-ward and re-explore.
Every late summer forecast
puts me in pain
from someone I was not supposed to have
while hallucinating trainmen
with white flags
waving;
indicating;
begging;
calculating;
expecting
me to hop on board
travel toward a broken rail
escape as my car de-rails
be sidetracked by another.
But I am taking my own car.
driving dark nights;
days in a fugue,
where I can tell this burnt orange autumn
from other mulching times.
Years are linear:
lined up for the plucking
the cluck of a million chicks to the slaughter
the murder of pet pigs for food.
a daughter to wife to mother;
a season when I will no longer be here.