Say after, two, three years
        of war, college, the road
        you return to the homeland.
        It's smaller than you imagined,
        and you want it just like you imagined.
        The Trestle is a pile of smoking creosote,
        and what the railroad can't burn
        what used to be the top beam
        with your spray-painted name
        is at ground level.
        You speak with a slight accent,
        eyes wild with new time zones,
        and recent wives keep their husbands
        at a safe distance.
        You back for good,
        some might ask, wondering
        if they should come closer.
        You tell them you don't know.
        What is known is like writing
        a poem about a painting
        from another tongue, another age.
        A place where locomotives still move
        through the night.

Copyright © K.A. McGowan, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.