Behind the Train Station

Behind the train station
a hidden river with sound lost
under traffic’s hullabaloo
wouldn’t even see it
or hear its soothing babble
without exploring beyond
where crowds crowd.

The burden of fashion
so heavy we sag
under weight of fishing
for compliments, so light
it blows away wishing
we had safety from
looking good.

A boy from Montana
grew up in Missoula
never ventured past
Butte or Bozeman
emptied his apartment
into his pickup off
to new pastures.

A girl with a stubborn
streak and a taste for
trouble told her doctor mom
and doctor dad she had
big plans to become
a school teacher
to refugees.

In a tourist town full
of vehicles in search of
roads and off-road trails
pre-arranged and published
paths and tours, a poet
and his poet wife found
a cemetary.

Every building and many
homes have a secret
place to be yourself and
to see what the birds see
just the wind or no wind
at all on the roof
free from life.

The effect of the usual
the beaten and trampled
way of the over-willing
popular participant
is a kind of polishing
a tarnished patina that
stops feeling.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
This entry was posted in poem, poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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