Even without trains something still goes by—

it’s never the same but usually travels
somewhere in the empty luggage and lost tickets
of a few afternoon bystanders—

like a regular who inches his way along the rails,
sending off small parts of himself each day
or the old men checking the sky for the time
while they toss small thoughts in a dry fountain.

There used to be another set of tracks,
other stops. The urge to leap
was coming then, too.

Listen.

© 2007 by  George Bishop. All rights reserved.