She stands on the beach covered
in the black body mask
that floats towards the sand.
One foot protrudes to feel the yellow day.
It has a different sensation
Feels freer than cold pebbles in the dark.
She stands and wonders what it must be like
to run naked in sunlight:
her hair keeping rhythm
with the morning breeze;
wet dirt squishing between her toes.
She looks down.
Retrieves her foot.
Afraid someone might have seen her
for the first time.
illustration by Randy Covey©
The Night Train Home
Photo courtesy www.moroccoworldnews.com
The window reflected a woman’s image.
I drew my hand to face
to wipe away the years of longing
sliding in droplets of sweat.
The night train was full of travelers
tracing dreams on magazine covers
and typed-set words in paperback books.
The ride was already too long.
Night coughed chunks of blind fear
from my lungs.
Heart, a clock of erratic time.
The conductor announced our arrival -
“Sandalwood Hills” echoed from car to car.
I gulped air like whiskey.
Strangers collected their baggage,
smoothed sleepless wrinkles from laps,
while I searched for that image.
Strangers stepped from the train
to the still of earth,
then disappeared into cars or taxis.
On a bench, outside the station,
I listened long for your footsteps.
Then gathered my packages;
all I’d come to be ballooned from my bags.
As I walked towards the black iron horse
that brought me to you,
it disappeared in the moonlight shadows.
“Take the Night Train home,” you said.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Writes for You!