Only a fence between the Avon Railyard and my haven:
I lived in her for those good years.
Dark grey blue sides and a white skirt kissing the green weeds,
tugging at her ankles tightly.
New hours, beautifully lit by the light of my television,
were dark, bitter like my fatherʼs coffee,
and sweet as the chocolate milk he mixed for me.
Bowed chords in the treble from rails on wheels of metal,
their songs still steal my breath and remake memories.
I swayed, swooning to sounds of our trains, but
only tunes remain—