The Coming Train - Poem by Adam Fitzgerald
It was a time of grandeur then,
When marble strangers huddled in lobbies
And cell phones stopped working
Their tired itemizing and lonely inventories
That is night.
Bodies assembled gradually. Checks hunted
In the glass cylinders of the window,
A small statuary of a village lady
Paused to gather garlands of a blue lily.
We were pent with bread and breath then,
Souvenirs sanctioning nature, or maybe
Something fiercer, like its sure causations.
All this clacking from slim ribbons of whim.
Who were we then, when the piano lurched
Sad appointments meaning time without tedium?
'Heed the bank deposits, ' the sign read,
'Wonder and wander often as you praise.
Choose for the cotton jar
A band of lucky tantrums and slivered gums.'
Yet for all that, it was a blessing of service
To cancel as often as we calmly came,
Remembering not me or it but what became of it:
A bespotted shaft, spackled and combed with laurelled sun.
In those days we stayed on
While everywhere papers hurried us away.
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