TransContinent

There are still people
Walking around
As I suppose there always will be
So long as they have legs

I have returned
With footing on ground
And, looking down the boxcar aisle
Decorative plates; the same somber dregs

Not to shun what is equal
Our ample space: a can of worms
Always inching toward that which is free
Knowing when we've found the crease

A penchant for that which is burned
Smudging, to forbid the germs
All our possessions in a pile
Waiting for the lid to release

Across the expanse, I learned of a silent Sebastopol steeple
No sound to stir the golden ferns
Mercantile inches trekked logistically
Daring to tease time with the laying of eggs
--
1/26/09