Friday, August 20, 2010

Salter's Point and The Trestle

When we had nothing
to our good names but time
we wasted the flower of our youth
down at the trestle.
Up in the bones of the span
like bandits laid and waiting
hours and weeks passed;
nestled and lazy,
in dovetail joints
of creosote slick thighs.
It was there
under the track
we waited all ears
for the bright iron hum
telegraphing the arrival
of every southbound train.
We came with pocket change offerings
spread out for sacrifice
along the ribbons of track
running ambivalently
above our foolish heads.
When we had nothing
the only buzz you could cop,
the only rush that was free,
was waiting for you
under the trestle rails
with the promise
of each passing train.

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