Like the leaves squeezed into bags that line my street,
it’s time for me to rest my fingers’ beat.
Like the epic finale to Purple Rain,
this train that’s mine has bled sweet feasts.
Each car that chugs along:
an overcrowded taste–
at the intersections of so long ago
and just now–
of gleeful childhood scenes
and overwhelming grownup trees.
All of it flies past my barred window.
Till I am safely back here
looking into the cold eyes of winter coming.
