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Post by MoonyLuna on Feb 19, 2009 12:12:54 GMT -5
Red lights whirling behind her in the sun, a cop ordered me off the trestle. Why? I asked, squinting. I knew what she'd say. I loved this shortcut to my bad job, loved walking above the street and then above the river, mincing across the slick, splintering ties —a true line against a hard blue sky— teasing a fear of heights with a love of rivers. The trains don't use it anymore, I called down to the voice that yelled what authority must yell: "Get down anyway!" What a surety the State was—Mom, with a holstered nine millimeter. That evening, as I trudged, obeisant, below the trestle, giving Mom time to forget, the creosoted posts, oozing tar, shuddered like oracles. Above, unseen, a lugubrious chugging mass, passed over, painstakingly almost half-aware, as gods proceed when they think they love us, we who are in this world to be swept away.
Copyright Andrew Hudgins
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Post by MoonyLuna on Feb 19, 2009 12:13:37 GMT -5
Featured Poet Andrew Hudgins
Andrew Hudgins is the author of Shut Up, You're Fine! Poems for Very, Very Bad Children, due out from Overlook Press in March.
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