she's standing on a platform
as the train chugs on a pebbled railroad
away to April harvests
and scattered hay bales
where the sun dips low
over rolling hills
and the wind whistles
to scarecrows in the golden wheat fields

he sits by a window framing
the dancing scenery
the evening is orange
and it falls in studious rectangles
across the compartment floor
he sleeps,
and the city steals away from him

by the time he gets off that train
he will have replaced his baseball hat
with a straw one
and her pack of pink bubblegum
will have fallen onto the tracks
when he stumbles on the platform

                                                       ­                      they will grow apart
                                                           ­                  she'll write to him
                                                             ­                he won't write back
                                                                ­             and they'll let it be