Freight

The handsome man discussing freight from Missassagua is loud.

He interrupts

the gentle creaking of the luggage bins,
the sweet steel-on-steel-swoosh-rumble.
The train cries: “I’m here, I’m here!”

He doesn’t hear;

nor see the gold glow broken
by streaking shadows of swallows diving down down between rows of corn
miniature from lack of rain.

What will his barge carry?

Containers of cream from the jerseys out to pasture?
Red barns filled with sweet hay?
A mountain of Queen-Anne’s Lace?
Blue flossy clouds painstakingly piled?

A hawk on a wire calls my attention, but

Covetous Voice

quickly restakes his claim.
Shop talk marbles plunk into blue upholstery behind my head,
together with certainty
we plunge predictably forward.