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Poetry » General » Wildness font: B s : A A A . width: full 3/4 1/2
Author: Lowell Boston
Fiction Rated: K - English - General - Reviews: 5 - Published: 05-24-03 - Updated: 05-24-03 - id:1310388
Wildness

Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak!

Rail and wheel, momentum, weight
This train is packed,
this aisle's full.
People, trees of people, standing
silent, rocking
to the movements of a car.

Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak!

Wheel to rail, exhilarating speed.
Across Camden this forest rushes
under sheets of clouds, and the bashing swordplay
of light against steel.

Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak!

Under the canopy,
among the limbs and copses,
an oak of a man
overhangs my seat.
Tall, deeply planted in roots of silence
and the protocol of strangers,
he reads his evening paper.

Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak!

Across the aisle a fox
throws him a hungry grin.
Designs to mark her turf,
desires my seat for her den.
The trunk turns with interest
is cold, and turns without.

Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak!

Wounded, the fox looks again - and again!
but the oak is firm,
steady, silent.

Thak... Tak... Thak... Tak...

Her tight jaw lowers
with the heavy weight
of the slowing train.
Languidly she wanders
among the trees,

down the path of the aisle.

The train stops
as the last syllable
in an apology against physics.
The doors open
and she gives one last look,
- one last call of her wild,
but it's her smile that has electricity;
a light in her eyes
both the color of new pennies.

Thak... Thak... Thak...

The man over me uproots himself
and takes her seat.
A mixed expression on his private face
as he watches her, through the colorless window,
dissolving in the comfortless light.

Where now is his sumptuous indifference
as he gauges the dimension
as what he feels,
a seed stirring with wildness
perhaps pushing against his heart,
rubbing against his mind?

Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak!

Some days I observe such wildness
among the tress.
A stone alone sitting
in the collapsed silence of a racing train.

Across the aisle the oak tree bends
and shades his empty hands
with the shadow of his face.

Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak!

I too follow the tracks of my own palms, and wonder
where they lead.

Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak! Thak-A-Tak!



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