Turning, Turning

DAVE, 1835

 

The wheels of the train,

turning, turning,

like the clay on the wheel,

turning, turning.

Oh, the stars were so bright

that night

and more than I had ever seen.

It’s coming back to me now.

I had been to Hamburg

to sell our wares.

Reuben Drake said

bring back the rum keg

full to the brim.

In the dark,

I filled my small flask,

filled it three times,

a small treat

on a cool night.

 

I lay down on the tracks

to see those stars,

the constellations forming messages

to my mother

and Eliza and Lydia

and George and John—

long words

scrawled across the heavens.

I heard a whistle

from far away

and thought

my mother was calling.

 

Now I have one leg.