Finally, a poem for March! This is a pre-pre-NaPoWriMo poem. Clearing out the pipes, so to speak.
April is almost here. Do you know where your poems are?
Views from a Slow Moving Train
On the commuter rail to Boston
I am flanked by the backs of houses,
uncut yards stretched along a metal horizon.
This city behind the city is a trash barrel:
rusted bicycle rims, soggy couch cushions,
last fall’s leaves in the crook
of a chain-link fence.
Foreclosed. Abandoned. Still life.
Exteriors stripped of interiors,
Doors without knobs, frames minus hinges,
shadows flickering against the chain
of a door no one will walk through.
No day is promised in this hardscrabble,
fucked up journey.
Every few yards a swing set passes,
free of rust, waiting for a child
to plop her bottom on the plastic seat,
kicking her legs into the sky.
(I borrowed and adapted the line "shadows flickering against the chain" from a C.K. Williams poem.)