The dog, too, misses you.
East Tennessee and the trains
come. The whistles shake the glass
of the old down-town shops.
I shake the dirt off the rug
in the yard. It is quiet. I’m not sure
I know how to write poems
anymore. Another Sunday morning
with black coffee and the classifieds.
Another country song about women
and men. But this is another place.
You are on a plane flying over
the mountains. I am waiting.
The sun is not yet up here,
but I must believe you can see it.
Right now, this is the best I can do.
Next to the tracks I bend my ear,
a robin beside me misses
the worm. I hear you coming.
I swear I hear your voice.
The pavement trembles,
a train hauls the morning
in sixty graffitied boxcars. Even
as the apple tree across the street
sags with beauty and fruit.