i could get lost in a graveyard,
in the company of
stone sentinels, markers to set each place aside
so that God can distinguish them later
when He summons His souls for their reckoning.
the names carved in
stand for mortal remembrance,
a name, a legacy, a life;
recognition among a sea of thousands,
tombs tumbling and tumbling
into the folly that death affords.
the paths winding through lay themselves out
for me attentively,
enhancing the trance
such diverse history,
still life upkept
in marbled cherubs and crucifixes
by those who stop
to care for a stranger
for a minute or so,
breath offered up where it hasn't existed
i talk to them sometimes,
the graves, the dead,
when no one's around;
less to communicate with a ghost
than just to acknowledge a presence,
to eliminate the eeriness of fatal silence
and to reiterate to myself
that life is short and finite.
it may sound gruesome but
cemeteries are one of my favorite things.
i could get lost in a library
where ink-stained pages beckon,
portals to places that have
in one way or another
from some sort of thought in time
that stuck around long enough
to warrant a permanent remembrance.
a story for the masses, a story for the fantasies,
one for me and one for the next
and always right where i left it;
like the finest of feasts
i sample the menu
and absorb the pages bursting with flavor,
pen strokes washed down
it is the most reciprocal relationship,
trading time for a tale or two,
oils from skin transferring into page turns
and dog-eared placeholders.
i'd not dream of defacing
the sacred marginal meadows
as some in academia would advise;
the only words worth their salt
were set, neat with justification,
ordered by author
so each that comes after me
might have the same fair offering.
in their categorical home
they are so many enigmas
shelved for whenever;
i kidnap a desolate corner
and begin one
without a look back at the world
that's already abandoned me once or twice.
it may sound childish but
libraries are one of my favorite things.
i could get lost in a trainyard,
down on the rails
that make no clickety-clack sound
without an engine to caress them.
my shoes are left to forgotten dirt piles
as bare toes meet iron,
and i could teeter all the way
into the next town
following the one predestined route,
balance beam calisthenics
only for me.
and should a resonating whistle
warn of an oncoming traffic jam
i'd gladly return to rocky terrain,
broken up by wooden planks at intervals
exact and unchanging,
neither threatening speed of passing train
nor conductor's shouts of disapproval
could shake me from gravely ground there alongside;
magnetic, majestic, mine.
i'd watch for the patient panorama at the end --
the serenity of far-off horizon,
steam bellowing from the front,
caboose growing smaller with distance,
though less chaotic in such regard;
in closer perspective:
hair being tossed about from such velocity,
that old clickety-clack returning
but much louder than remembered,
paired with the roar of engine and wheel,
car after car after car.
then it's long gone
and it's back to
my juvenile reverie,
lonely track welcoming me again,
glad for some in-between company
to pass the time --
both of us there
to pass the time
not doing much of anything.
i hum the rails an easy tune,
a serenade for myself
in a moment when thought gets lost
as i get lost in dreams.
it may sound lonesome but
railroads are one of my favorite things.
i could get lost.