The Boxcar

She sang in the trees,

her voice thin as wood,

eyes sad pools of oil,

glistening with tender regret.

For years passed like trains

without whistles, bells, or gates,

without the high-pitched red,

only clanging monotony,

each car burdensome and brown,

hidden passengers with unknown pasts,

some running, some invisible in their soullessness,

sitting nameless inside.

The boxcar pittered across borders,

holding the desert stone in its smooth, firm grip;

voles and Gila monsters scattered beneath its shadow,

through the wide whispering grasses of the plains,

past the carefully cut awnings,

the abandoned marble columns

of banks turned libraries,

turned quiet—

like broken teeth

in empty mouths.