mind map meander #4

The empty boxcars lured long ago.
Small town. Kid growing up in a small
town. Railroad crossings litter
much midwestern space houses spacious
for bringing up bounties in broods
and roads and farmer fields do not; but they’d roll
along, forcing a halt in progress
like to get to the IGA for a cold
Pepper or something with peppermint;

empty crates of steel swaying on the tracks
as they screeched and squealed – from afar
it looked so easy to hop in
and not worry where the adventure
would end because it was the adventure’s
inception that mattered, but up close
was another story – you’d have to be
able to leap at least half your height,
so it was best to just stand there and wait

for the train’s tail to disappear behind
the filling station, or around the cannon
dedicated to the town as
a reminder of sacrifices,
dream of escaping, or practice
the art of the dream of escaping,
because that desire yet waits to throw
fears to the gravels and take
the leap and let come what may go down


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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