MKT

No place is without memories,

I think, as I walk a leaf-covered trail

that carried hundreds of thousands

of pounds of steel. The shadows

of trees mimicking the railroad ties

is the only reference I have

for the weight this road once bore.

The birds are belting out

the most palatable registry

I've ever heard, and I wonder

if their ancestors fought

against the locomotive's cacophony.

I step in dog shit - a mess

someone left, bound to become

someone else's problem. Surely

our dog owner is overburdened by

someone else's mess

that should have been cleaned.

But so it goes, at a steady pace

like forgotten wheels

on the MKT.

STL -> DEN

The orange moon before dawn

told us the story of the coming sun.

I looked to the trees

beyond the field of birds

as something — not quite a bell

— rang out behind me.

I had almost forgotten the crowd:

some walking with purpose,

some reading in silence,

a child coughing,

and the endless sounds of life at work

— directionless, filling all space,

confusing meaning, building every story.

Sleeping at the Birthplace

John Deere Guy showed up early

in the morning while my head 

was on the desk and Carl hummed 

a lullaby with the petrol-powered 

mower grumbling as it was 

brought back from its winter death.

I was supposed to learn something today—that’s right,

John Deere Guy would teach me 

how to work the mower once the mower

was running. My head was just fine on that desk 

until I realized John Deere Guy had gone

before I’d even seen his face.

Now, it’s just Carl and I (and I’ve only 

seen remakes of his face and mine).

I’m off to tame that green, gas-bellied beast 

with nothing to help me but the stickers 

at my feet and the knowledge

that Carl could use a trim.

Doing the Dishes

Returning tarnished things

to a usable state,

clearing all the remnants

of what we did before,

trying to maintain

good posture

and not use too much water.

Don’t forget to give thanks.