The poem that I wrote, this morning between 2:30 and close to 4:00 o’clock, is still in its first draft.
The dogs woke me up just after two o’clock,
Climbing out of bed to sleep on the floor
I can hear the wind gusts rattle windows
And on the other side of town
The Empire Builder’s whistle blowI remember when I lived down near the tracks,
Fifty years or more ago, sitting on a bench
With Charles D–, waiting for his train…
A bit of the flavor, anyhow. Remembering the late 1960s and solitary men waiting for the night train in the upper Midwest, headed for Seattle. Lot of work yet to do on it. The first draft goes on for two or maybe three or four more stanzas. Putting it aside to revise/rewrite during the winter. Maybe get a night photo of the actual train depot, if it’s still there. I haven’t gotten to that area on foot for a couple decades.
Quilted Poetry 