boxcars

this is a different type of story.
neither a beginning nor an end it’s the story of you and me,
how we left life to wander among the boxcars.
silent but graceful, with matured faces
but the body of children grown too
soon and rushed into something
we do not care for.
we are boy and girl sitting on the boxcar:
engaged in our first movement.
“there’s nothing in me too love, you can’t do it.”
“i can.”
“i think your confused.”
“no, i think you are.”

this is a different type of story.
better explained through words because
voices cannot keep it,
will not say it.
so we run up and down the train
tracks chasing our chaotic dreams- screaming higher and higher and higher
you live for me and i’ll live for you,
and one day the passing trains will collide,
in a brilliant display of death and desire,
we will make our vows within it’s fire.
“when we grow up we’ll fight it together you and me, we’ll be all right once we have each other.”
“i’m not sure i can wait that long.
i don’t think i can wait.”
“NO NO NO NO NO WAIT GODDAMN IT! YOU CAN’T QUIT!”

a different type of story.
sunsets from the boxcars were bittersweet.
a melody playing from the carnival across a dead field
of scarecrows,
speared onto their hollow poles,
waving while the wind weaves between their ears,
cursing all that real, all that is now,
lamenting for the tragedies sitting on the boxcars:
hopelessly wishing to wail away the scars.
“maybe she chose the smart way out in quitting on me.
just like everyone, everyone else.”
“shut up.
this isn’t even funny.”
“who’s laughing.”

who tells this tale?
the angels on duty perch upon
the crossing signs.
take away bits a pieces of the story and drop them
into each. different. boxcar.
sleeping in all their rusted glory,
motionless on the tracks.
the piter pater piter pater of our
footfalls the rhythm, the
lyrics the accusations, frustrations, accusations, frustrations,
exit plans.
“you said you would never leave.”
“so did my father.”
“so what, are you going to leave?
how could you. there is never,
a way out.”
“sure there is.”

there is a man who comes to clean the ruins,
a man who cares for the boxcars.
gently sweeping each one with a broom,
swirling the dust about his head and
laughing all the while. in car
seven he was surprised to find
it strewn with glass and
smelling of promise,
the walls thick with a soft pink paint. the
word broken crudely written in rough
strokes, the whole thing the the shape of
three fourth of a heart.
“what road are you going to take.
what train, for this station is emptier than
heaven.”
“colder than hell.”
“what train do you think is heading southbound.”
“well lets see, oxycotin, meth, cyanide, no.22, no.45-”
“this is why i do not touch people. cause this sh*t, this sh*t is always waiting at paradise’s door.”
“have you ever though i could be saved in three words?”
“eighteen letter i ought not think.”
“three syllables i’ve searched for in ever boxcar-”
“well child here it now.
i love you.”

a story that cannot be told completely.
it must be told in lies,
so that you cannot see the truth blazing
in her cold eyes,
in her cold hands,
she keeps shoved in her pocket while they wait.
for a train to pull into the station, for the
boxcars to pick themselves up
and move.
for the man to clean the paint before it dries,
and stains the rusty wall for years
until they finally collapse,
in a loud, old, heap.
it’s said that talk is cheap.
“listen, you live for me and i’ll live you for you.”
“since i’ve lost all faith in myself, i’ll do it. i guess.”
“you guess?”
“i guess, i never know.”

locomotive number 9 has pulled into the station.
“how indecisive.”
fallen out of heaven,
“that’s my train.”
dear god was that kind.
“goodbye.”
but this was not what the boy and girl asked for,
“bye.”
and now they are out of time.
“no, wait. hey!
come and dance in our boxcar once more.”
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I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Aflred Tennyson (1809-1892)