Well after the conductor yelled,
“All aboard,” and well after all
of the tickets were punched;
a group of people,
who didn’t know one another
were all headed north.

Little hands turned through pages
while larger ones were cupping
at the window, trying to get
a better view of the night sky.
A farmers pasture flashed by,
but went unnoticed in the dark.

A few seats down slouched a frail
grey haired lady, with her hands
clasped around a small bouquet
of daises.  And across the aisle,
towered a man who’s hands
could hold a dozen eggs.

Alone in the corner was a red
dressed woman; doing her best
to not spill her coffee. She watched
the children next to her fall
into an innocent sleep.
And ripples echoed in her fingers.

She thought about how strange it is
that everyone on a train
can be going the same direction
but have different destinations.
And then she thought about
how tired the conductor had looked.

I put a lighthouse in the window in hopes that you were coming home
But we don’t even share the same shoreline
These storms have never been good to me
And I made too many promises to keep my life in my own hands
I’m afraid these legs are far too weak to ever stand in a courtroom
And the angels lost interest in me a long time ago
All I can do is fend them off with broken wrists
I was never frail until I gave you everything I had
But now I’m tired of the guillotine smiles
And every embrace that feels like a noose
Waking up in a deathbed feels unnerving at first
I guess its better than shivering on the floor
The real horror comes later when you start to feel comfortable
*~W.C.

Today for the first time in quite awhile,
upon my face grew a genuine smile.

It wasn't fabricated, it was honest and true
and when reality hit me I was left feeling blue.

I was so surprised, it was hard to even speak.
How long had it been? A month or a week?

My smile had faded as quickly as it grew,
but I know it'll be back the next time I think of you.

Its always in this house
Where her small ivory hands have never been
And her blood red lips have never tasted
The floor sings sad songs as we walk
At such late hours in the night
Its the stairs and the purple curtain
That I think I’ll associate with the way things were
When it was just me I kept my gas tank full
So I could always leave at a moments notice
The highway has never sounded so quiet in my life
Drowned out in your whispers
But even a sinking ship can be repaired
*~W.C.

I remember asking my dad,
“How many stars are in the sky,”
and he said something like,
“Way too many to count.”
But I’ve counted.
And after recounting
                                      and recounting
and scribbling in my notebook
under my fathers flashlight
I can tell you that there is
indeed a number.

And to this day I prefer
reading the stars over anything.
They’re the oldest book ever written.
Space: the oldest canvas to be sewn
and the cosmos the paint of Picasso.
Each spec is its own character
each pair a set of eyes
where I can lose myself in their gaze.
A celestial connect the dots
where I collect the pictures
and pick out my favorite spots.

But when my son
is old enough to ask,
“How many stars are in the sky?”
I’ll just hand him a notebook
and tell him to read what he sees.