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Poem of the week: “Last Train” by Khimm Graham

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.