The train blasts through our small country town
at this early morning hour, and I listen contently
from your bed.
Your windows are foggy and the whistle
cuts through the still Sunday darkness.
My hand grazes back and forth across your chest.
There's just enough light squeezing into the apartment
so that I can see the outline of your face.
Your strong features glow softly in what little light
the moon offers.
The train whistle blows as it passes through.
This town used to burst with life; those days
are gone.
I hold you tightly, thinking about how
we are blossoming in this wilting city.
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