I pull my damp,
faded jean's jacket
out of the machine.
Something clatters.
Oh good, a dime.
No. A cherry seed.

Now you're going to tell me
that cherry have pits, right?
But "pit" is such a dismal little word.
And this shiny clean trophy sports
a history of petty thievery,
committed in the local grocery store.

A big yellow cherry with a pink blush.
Just one, chewed boldly. Its hard center
hidden in my pocket.

Adobe and dust,
a place so quiet.
One grandfather
cottonwood,
leaves rustling,
listens with us
for the next train.

Drought has dried
this land beyond
any living person's
memory.
Now, a cooling wind
gathers power.
The sky over the old
mountains darkens.

As the train pulls
out from the antique
station, a single fork
of lightning frames
itself in the small
rear window.

The silvered tracks
put distance
rapidly behind us.

Opening out now
before us, sunlight
on the High Desert.

We turn to see
starched white
cumulous clouds,
absent for months
float by, flat bottoms
casting healing shadows
over the parched land.

In Albuquerque, we
stop for new passengers.
It's days after the 4th of July;
families have been visiting.

Roasted green chilies,
their fragrance so earthy
are brought onboard.

A mother and her 
teenagers sit down
beside me. She smiles,
we talk. This brother
and sister are so good
to each other.

Dinner in the dining car
is an old-fashioned treat.
Big windows and white
cotton table cloths.

I find myself seated
family style, with a
father and son. Some
bicycle race has given
them rare time together.

As night comes on,
the conductor makes
a sleeping time call.
The lights are dimmed.

In the early hours,
walking aisle after
aisle and car to car
I see humanity
asleep in all its
quirky loveliness.

Tanned toddlers,
sprawled almost upside
down. Hair mussed up,
wearing bows meant
for grandparents.

Graying heads,
long accustomed to
leaning into one another,
rest peacefully.

One young man, a poet
with a crown of dreads
stands alone with his
thoughts, looking  
out at the stars.  

Jostled awake now,
I see the The Big Dipper
perfectly placed as a child
would draw it, twinkling
in my smudged window.

A haze of soft pink light
signals this new day.
All of us, coming home.

Human angels, each
here for one another.

We are the ones who feel
almost everything.

Squeezed like sun-warmed
wine grapes, pressed
like fragrant coffee beans,
distilled like kilos of flowers,
may these memories of our lives
become good poems.

It's the perfect,
soothing,
excuse.

Warm, fragrant,
and necessary.

What else
could so
effectively
keep me
from my
writing?

Now,
there's
just mine
to do,
and I'm
out of
excuses.

Lying together in
the calm of night
eyes losing focus,
drifting towards
sleep, there was
always one more
thought to speak,
one more kiss to
give. Black hair
shone like ravens'
wings on silken
pillows. At dawn,
I would lead my
army into battle,
never to return.

Now, you turn
your face to smile
at a new love,
holding a black
umbrella over her
pretty blond head.

When we met,
our souls saw
who we were  
to one another.

But that was then,
my love.