A four-engine train
engines idling diesel
beside the iron fence mist
herds of penned-in cattle
earthen clouds settling low
a rider crooning Huddie Ledbetter
Goodnight Irene.
His thoughts were refuge from the stillness
anxious to fly far over
the rangeland and the chaparral
across creeks and rivers nourishing
the vague sorrow of spring.
Instead, he sat rooted
downhearted, floating
sipping coffee black
the yellow and purple
pastry torn in bits
butter.
He asked the cook
and explained that just yesterday
he’d become a father
to a blue Doberman
and what did he think
of the name “Sky.”
“For chrissake…that has got to be
the most beat-up-old-hippie-type name.”
(Sky was the name of a kid
at his school–always lost
and on the outs with the law).
“That’s the way to live,” he thought,
“on the edge. Not the trailing edge–
not the leading edge either. Those
people are as dead as young martyrs.”
James P. Goss is a writer, actor and musician, author of Pop Culture Florida and the Vinyl Lives series about record stores and collectors. Goss’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Blue Moon, Vita Brevis, Synchronized Chaos, October Hill, and others. He lives in South Florida with his family.
