I wait for peace to find its way into my bones and hair ******* with bows
by the train tracks.
I throw stones
that skip over a river like
Bradley Nowell, slurring out
the same line
over and over and over,
something about a corner store,
a collection of words that when I sing them,
taste like July.
1, 2, 3,
the rock disappears.
A train passes by,
wheels churning out a steady rhythm of
"Please don't leave me, please don't leave me."
Dead reggae and dead love,
tangled in its underbelly,
rusted metal guts.
I look into the river to try to find the stone I skipped again.
I think I almost see it,
a speck under the surface.
(Do you believe in ghost trains? I hear something howl every night.)
The seniors are leaving school for good next week, and I don't deal with distance well