i am writing in Neruda green
as the world's saddest train
stretches south
toward walsenburg's winter hills
years ago we sat here for hours
as ambulance and police
pulled the body of a deaf boy
from the tracks
seasons ago
the box cars of coal
had shadows
that rocked in the sunlight
where iron could dance
and the days would lead
what faint call
did that deaf boy hear
on which beat did he join in
on which step did his partner
coal train
hear him scream
my father
every time we passed these tracks
he remembered the boy
who stopped traffic so many years ago
during a time
when we were all boys
counting box cars 1 2 3 with their
clip clip churn
as they rolled slowly by
and as men
like Neruda
we regard this train standing in the snow
as the saddest thing on earth
we count box cars filled with coal
and remember stories
recreate pieces of coal
thrown from moving trains
we are boys
waiting beside the tracks
collecting coal
in burlap potato sacks
telling everyone the black stones
are gifts collected in the cold
at what point in my life
i wonder now
when did my father stop remembering
the deaf boy
at what point in my life
had i learned the lesson
everything that moves
does not necessarily dance
during which snow
did the train stop on the hillside
the box cars like pale footprints
climbing climbing with sacks of coal
until the last of them
is gone from sight
finally underway
clicking slowly south