In Towns Gone By

I think I need to hop a train and head off exploring again. My wanderlust is calling.

A visual prompt while journeying from D.C. to NYC via Amtrak.

In Towns Gone By

Blasting past town, the silver bullet rail

rains dry dust on small weeded lots

filled with tousled grey boarded homes.

Sitting in crumbling rocking chairs 

blue/white-haired ladies

fumble hooked crochet sticks in and out

of their last row of muddy brown yarn

Slightly resembling a sweater.

Intermingled amongst the women 

are a few broken down, doddering

old men snoozing- 

dreaming of days gone by

Impatiently the women's hands move up, 

down, 

hook here, loop through and pull,

wondering when their 

young folk will be arriving home.

The air is stagnant as if life 

has exhaled it's last breath.

Like a breeze, 

the sound of whistling proceeds

weary men shuffling through the streets

joyfully anticipating a meek 

dinner prepared by their wives.

Cries of hello and see ya later 

fill the air as the young men step onto  

chipped stoops. Like a carefully choreographed dance

dirty children burst out of different doors

And run into stiff arms smothering wet

kisses onto the necks of their fathers.

Wiggling free, the men sit

leaning back into moldy chairs

and talk to the old folks.

Others enter their homes

all are waiting 

—for dinner.

Wives hugged and dinner

devoured families spill back 

on the porch.

The witching hour has approached

that time when brains vacation,

bodies melt comfortably in the cooling shade

and all is right with the world.

Too bad the devil's work 

will start all over in the morning.