A Boy on the Platform

The train pulled away,
carrying you in its belly
and belching black smoke,
leaving behind a throng
jostling on the platform.

I knew
it was the last time
I would ever see you.

Standing there, I hoped
that for a few miles
you might look out the window—
watching poles and trees zip by—

and trace my name
on the dirty glass
with a twinge of sadness.

A small gift
to validate my own.

 

Inward Country

When will we cross the border
into that inward country
where the self feels light—

liberated from the relentless
pursuit of next,

that monster
which must be continuously fed?