h a m i l t o n r a i l r o a d s t a t i o n
H E R M A N B E A V E R S
I can't stop thinking about corn,
tall and defiant as a woman,
hands on her hips, waiting
for the old man to come
home and do damage.
There are grey clouds with lightning
but no rain, no thunder.
This is a day I could love.
It's so hot, sin sits closer
to the ground than prayer.
The crowd at the baseball field
waits for the game to be called.
I'm looking for the last one out.
The station master ambles under the clock,
carrying a trumpet so shiny
it could send light bounding off into space.
His name is William, but he goes
by Gushion. His helmet of grey hair
so fierce it's like he's Aonie
the Sky God musing on rain.
A single note
hangs loud and sweet
on the air till the heat closes
around it, leaving the sound of souls
caught up in a soft rustle of forgetting,
what they need behind.
If I wasn't catching this train,
I'd be picking corn hulls out of my nails,
heading to the back door
of the farmhouse to see Almajean
before her husband gets home. She'd
stare at me for five seconds, say,
Get on in here, like she was
losing time and had a good
mind to go over every inch
of my body till she found it.
Maybe that explains why
I've come to hate the sunlight.
the sight of a cornstalk stripped
to nothing, shrugging its green
husk to the ground, like a
dress off of a woman with
better things to do.
Standing here on the platform,
I'm looking down
the tracks, warm beer
in my hand; I can see
a strand of lightning
lashing heaven to the ground.