My town lies parallel to the tracks
that carried the Midnight Special.
The legend is that if the train's light
shone upon a sleeping prisoner
in the penitentiary just down the way
he would soon be released.
I stretch across my bed
counting what metal gathers
from its travels through the flaming dark-
hope from houses, indifference from cattle,
and the hollowed howls of lonely hounds.
Sis, two weeks dead, and I'm
strapped to my comforter by grief
and regret, pinned to the pillows
by the stones of my sorrow, I ask
the train again and again,
what do you bring?
The lonely whistle
hails in solemn fashion,
no answer carried in its moan.
With the many ways of addressing
suffering, I hadn’t, until this moment,
considered taking it head on.
I look up and see
the star-awarded night
through open curtains
and wonder,
when will the ever-loving light
come for me?
Previous Version
My town lies parallel to the tracks
that carried the Midnight Special.
The legend is that if the train's light
shone upon a sleeping prisoner
in the penitentiary just down the way
he would soon be released.
I stretch across my bed
counting what metal gathers
from its travels through the flaming dark-
hope from houses, indifference from cattle,
and the hollowed howls of lonely hounds.
Sis, two weeks dead, and I'm
strapped to my comforter by grief
and regret, pinned to the pillows
by the stones of my sorrow, I ask
the train again and again,
what do you bring?
The lonely whistle
hails in solemn fashion,
no answer carried in its moan.
I look up and see
the star-awarded night
through open curtains
and wonder,
when will the ever-loving light
come for me?
Previous Version
A train shakes the night rolling
on the Midnight Special’s tracks
past the famous prison that’s been turned
into a training facility for jailers.
There’s a legend that if the train’s
light shone upon a sleeping prisoner
he would be released soon.
In my house in a subdivision
adjacent to the historic penitentiary
I stretch across my bed,
counting what the metal gathers
from places it passes in the flaming dark.
It snatches hope from the houses,
indifference from the cattle,
and the lost wail of lonely hounds
to scatter its assemblage
where there is emptiness.
Strapped to this mattress by grief
and regret, pinned to the pillows
by the stones of my sorrow, I ask
again and again, what have you
brought me? The sound
of the train’s lonely whistle
howls in rhythmic fashion, nothing
tonight, nothing tonight.
I look up and see the I’ve
left the curtains open.
Perhaps tonight
the ever-loving light
will shine on me.
that carried the Midnight Special.
The legend is that if the train's light
shone upon a sleeping prisoner
in the penitentiary just down the way
he would soon be released.
I stretch across my bed
counting what metal gathers
from its travels through the flaming dark-
hope from houses, indifference from cattle,
and the hollowed howls of lonely hounds.
Sis, two weeks dead, and I'm
strapped to my comforter by grief
and regret, pinned to the pillows
by the stones of my sorrow, I ask
the train again and again,
what do you bring?
The lonely whistle
hails in solemn fashion,
no answer carried in its moan.
With the many ways of addressing
suffering, I hadn’t, until this moment,
considered taking it head on.
I look up and see
the star-awarded night
through open curtains
and wonder,
when will the ever-loving light
come for me?
Previous Version
My town lies parallel to the tracks
that carried the Midnight Special.
The legend is that if the train's light
shone upon a sleeping prisoner
in the penitentiary just down the way
he would soon be released.
I stretch across my bed
counting what metal gathers
from its travels through the flaming dark-
hope from houses, indifference from cattle,
and the hollowed howls of lonely hounds.
Sis, two weeks dead, and I'm
strapped to my comforter by grief
and regret, pinned to the pillows
by the stones of my sorrow, I ask
the train again and again,
what do you bring?
The lonely whistle
hails in solemn fashion,
no answer carried in its moan.
I look up and see
the star-awarded night
through open curtains
and wonder,
when will the ever-loving light
come for me?
Previous Version
A train shakes the night rolling
on the Midnight Special’s tracks
past the famous prison that’s been turned
into a training facility for jailers.
There’s a legend that if the train’s
light shone upon a sleeping prisoner
he would be released soon.
In my house in a subdivision
adjacent to the historic penitentiary
I stretch across my bed,
counting what the metal gathers
from places it passes in the flaming dark.
It snatches hope from the houses,
indifference from the cattle,
and the lost wail of lonely hounds
to scatter its assemblage
where there is emptiness.
Strapped to this mattress by grief
and regret, pinned to the pillows
by the stones of my sorrow, I ask
again and again, what have you
brought me? The sound
of the train’s lonely whistle
howls in rhythmic fashion, nothing
tonight, nothing tonight.
I look up and see the I’ve
left the curtains open.
Perhaps tonight
the ever-loving light
will shine on me.
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