Wanders like a train wanders, one eye light in the night,
in search of a next town to set settled folks hearts aflame.
Like a circus or a sickness, to take and take,
abandon with a whistle on it’s way.
Or a man alone in the wrong place at the wrong time,
Twentieth Century, Nineteen Fifty and Five,
in the bright, bright beam of American Ford factory headlight.
A dark hole dug past midnight dash radio sings.
Scuffed shoes and shouts, Sears Roebuck and gout, dust kicked up, woolen trim.
Bent backs and hats, and hats and hats.
On a whim in the wind.
Like they were planting a seed to grow a tree.
It’s getting late.
Night bugs fly. Moths tend to bulbs.
Cricket returns to cupboard corner, hats return to hooks.
Cool, cool air of the Frigidaire stare.
Up the stairs in a stupor,
collapsing at dawn when all the dreamy business is done.
Sean Sullivan 2014