we will all be on that platform
hailing
the last train out of town
the question
of whether it is
pulling out of tranquility
or steaming toward it will
most likely be the one
leaning on the doorpost of memory
memories
of your run
of the world spinning toward you
the glory of each sunrise
glinting on
the sickle that was
always mere inches
from the back of your neck
how you knew
even at full sprint
you would
like all before you
finish second
fading
into the crowd
as the victor
collects
another bouquet
with my attention on Venus
revealed as a bank of crimson bellied clouds
was pushed out of the way
by some upper level current
I nearly drove off the road
a correction made to center myself
between the lines
I looked for her again
but she had
ducked behind a curtain
once more
leaving me to ponder the hypnotic sway
of a single point of light
concern
I can tell by the furrows that
she worries
worries that I will
wonder aloud
one too many times
fearful that someone or two
from some agency or another
will walk up on me
maybe from behind
as I stand
with my head cocked
index finger knuckled under my lip
stating to anyone within
elbow grabbing distance
that none
of this
can be
correct
I can picture it playing out
in a blue tinted comically slow silence
her
trying to wave them off
me
painting a mural of lunacy
for all I feel should know of such
agency fellas
circling and signaling position
to one another
above it all
someone is calling out a play by play
but the peanut man has packed it in
and the scorekeeper has
lost count on account of an addiction
to confusion
the crowd
turning as they always do
to stare
at the one objecting to a union
I should stop
but I know that
I will always
need to know
hitch
somewhere there should be a road
suitable for the use of a thumb
just roll out a map
and get down to choosing one
weigh the corners down
with your regrets
they've only
been good
for that kind of thing
anyway
it was
if you were to ask me last week
where it was that I awoke
I would have
deadpanned
America
if you ventured to speak to me at all
I may have spoken back
(( in terms that didn't seem so
goddamned
disturbingly nostalgic
that yes
it was
good
if you were to look in anything resembling my direction
I may have be found
wandering
in some forgotten garden
as it was
giving little thought
to the all too likely
ascent of another beast
once I regain strength
there is hope
that
I will emerge
I will find that garden again
I will try to locate
all the pieces
of a broken faith
and rebuild
a sacred vessel to house
all that I was to be for others
placed when done
next to
a candle kept burning
for all who intend to do the same
Frederick E. Whitehead is a Buffalo area poet who has had a blog at www.fewhitehead.wordpress.com since 2010. He is the author of 7 volumes of poetry. His latest, titled Luna, came out in March of 2016. He is also the host of Dog Ears 4th Friday Poetry Series at Dog Ears Bookstore & Cafe. In his spare time, he publishes limited run chapbooks through his Destitute Press.