PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

loaded back pack
heading back under
those elevated tracks
i feel a defacto border
between Cuba village
and it's namesake town
i confess,
having walked around some more
both seem to wall in some thoughts

and filter others out

meanwhile white-tailed deer
a hundred feet eastward
approach that rail bridge
then flag the rangale
and turn tail to now passing
half-mile of freight

settling for another
graze with the tamed horses
near the world's first
all concrete stable,
wondering as they chew
studying the asphault road
where do

those northbound cars end up
after they disappear through that portal?
where do

those southbound cars come from
as they return to where the good grub is?

yes, what's on the other side of those tracks?
over time, oh, the legends they'll build up

living on their side of the village line bridge