there's thunder like a rumor in the air all day
or maybe the ghost train on its way
it's impossible to tell, are they staying or going
should it be raining, or is it snowing;
portmanteaus in hand or is this a haunted land
where what you think you see
is only who they used to be
where even the tumbleweed is an illusion
or is it kind of a spell
by the striking blue of ozone, time short circuiting
so that we weren't forewarned
mere sailors of these ships of dust
who long ago had turned to rust
packing it all in, heave desert anchors, ho!
still wondering where the wave begins,
the shore retreats; beating the querulous question sweet
like an ineffectual drum;
ghost armies on the run but the war was won
when will we go home
soaked unto the bone
does anybody know
did anyone ever show up
at the depot to meet you?
mary angela douglas 25 july 2022; 13 march 2023
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem