the train
just around
the long curve,
with its cars full
of velvet-lined songs
and sparkling tomorrows.
I stand at the edge of the rails
my good arm always already raised
and waving, afraid that when the train
finally arrives, the conductor will smile and
wave back as the train trundles merrily
along the track, afraid he’ll mistake
my gesture for a greeting, not
seeing I’m trying to wave
the engine down. I have
songs in my pockets. I
learn the joy of
spending them
on the curve.