Lee Ann Pingel

Night Freight


The CSX night freight skirts the edge
of the county,  fifteen backroad crossings,
its low discordant horn
unfurling like a dark flower
from a twisting, rumbling vine.
My husband snores softly, far
beside me in our king-size bed.
I stretch an arm to reach him;
he lies beyond my grasp.

One night, not yet thirty, I sat up
to find the death-angel standing bedside,
a darker shade among the shadows.
Knowing in some deep crease of mind or soul
that surely I slept still, I scoffed
and lay back into easeful sleep.
Twenty years later, the spectre
lingers at the fringe of sight,
easily ignored ′til reappearing,
immediate, breath-taking,
less and less tolerant
of my forgetting.

I know that there’s a train a-comin’,
but this one, this night, is passing, is passed,
leaving only its dizzying fragrance
spinning the bed beneath me.


1 comment:

The views and opinions expressed throughout belong to the individual artists and may or may not coincide with those of the other artists (or editors) represented within the magazine. Hobo Camp Review supports a free-for-all atmosphere of artistic expression, so enjoy the poetry, fiction, opinions, and artwork within, read with an open mind, and comment wisely. Thanks for stopping by the Camp!