See how the red name faded hard to sorry
on the yellow sign, and how the spur along
the loading platform’s empty as a hand.
Most of all, listen to the silence, the nothing
that’s behind those bolted doors, humming
like a note too old to hear. When Italians
move away, the air hangs silent as a pear.
Knock once. Then crack the frozen bolt with anger.
When plums dried in his dream, the office manager
brought all his energy to work. Inside, we find
the ledgers curled from sweat. The sickening odors
of some former fruit order us to cross the days off
on the calendar and wait, two life term prisoners.
The track stood barren just two days and crows flew north
to Bigfork where the cherries flare. And if, here,
we must face the falling profit, the new way
apples are preserved, the failure of the railroad,
we should also know the vital way birds locate orchards,
we should also fly the stale air of our tiny cell,
poking the corners light ignores. The poor
feed well on those discarded planets they explore.
We are rich as tramps. Even in this gloom
a record shipment gleams and we cry venga venga
to a derailed train. In the supermarket
where the light is whole, we can finger lemons
for the right one and the price will ring.
Think how colors ring and how those loud pears climb
in tiers like choirs on display.
for Sarah Wilcox