The Train
The train no longer runs through this village.
The tracks have grown over with weeds that say
It has been at least a year that we have been
Allowed to live. But you would still hesitate to
Place something on these rails. I don’t
Mean a penny or a carton of eggs,
But something you cherish. You wouldn’t tie
Your dog to the ties, or leave a shoebox
Of crying kittens on the cinders, or
Set your wedding ring, or your only pair
Of glasses, or your unbacked-up laptop,
On one of these rails. Nor would you dare
Push a stroller over the sleepers and leave
A sleeping baby here, not even for an instant,
Not even if you stepped back only a few feet,
Glancing up and down the tracks as if shaking
Your head, as if telling yourself no, in order to
Be sure what you know isn’t coming
Isn’t coming. No you wouldn’t, not because
Of any real danger, (believe the weeds
When they say there is none) but because
There is a train that will always run
Along the brain’s bright rails, a train
Of thought bearing a freight of disasters.