July 29, 2016 § Leave a comment

I stopped to talk to James


on the last rail of


   ((once a boundary for kids

             who wave

                  now from worlds edge
he went on about

        a place no longer

               being a home

as much as a spot

hollowed out to wait


wheezing ones way to a conclusion


       it is

       he said

just a place to fold

a faded map of nowhere

and to un-dogear pages

that will never be returned to
I picked a slat from the pile


                  the weight of it

wondering about his expression

which was not unlike 

that of a fish


       I could not hear
(c) 2016 Fred Whitehead 

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