Riding the Train Through New EnglandKelly Fordon
In New England anyone might emerge from a clapboard house.
A bonnet, a walking stick, a gnome with a cauldron.
On the train, a foliage kaleidoscope, slide by light,
an American flag, a construction worker studying a clipboard.
You can buy clothes at Chloe’s Closet
and whose to say they’re not yours?
I have been crying for no particular reason.
My friend is facing forward and I’m looking back.
Every time the conductor ambles through,
he asks me for my ticket again.
It’s not a replicant.
You know that light that doesn’t quite touch the earth?
That bony old lady in a shawl?
Winter just crawled out from under her leaf pile.
The farther you move away from civilization, the clunkier the cars.
A small boy in dirty cleats mucking up the clouds.
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