By Khimm Graham
Everything I owned was in a box
a case of sixteen cats and a bottle
of Merlot hid a picture I smuggled
of horses in flowers – a ring of mums
in a winning circle of thieves.
But I lost my mind in the land
of sun searing scarlet letters
unopened mail with wicca wax and broken bones
an anagram I bought and sold
to buy a ticket home.
A kiss of death folded my face
into ages of grace and wise old men
wrote epitaphs on gypsy kings -
music saved for waking knaves
and killing crows.
Once grand, once glorious deco stone
haunts tourists and authors who chase
poor, lost souls through empty halls
where engines roared home
pay pity, pay homage alone.
Home – where heart is swallowed whole
for better, worse than I can take
the last train rolling stacks of flame
where garbled birds of war refrain
now silent and inane.
Contributor’s Note: Poet and prose writer KHIMM GRAHAM lives in West Seneca. This poem was inspired by a train ride she once took that began with an earthquake on the West Coast and ended at Buffalo’s Central Terminal on Memorial Drive.