Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Desolation at the Santa Ana Station

The helper bees and their quiet talk
Of balustrades and train delays
Just makes the distance more acute.
The wring of rubbing hands.

No solace for the man who lost his time
And pride, for though he's always wrong
He still can see a woman deeply
So still she feels compassion for him.

Even a gentle breeze would jar the quantum field
Like a library where the homelessness can sleep.

And then it's Spanish warm
And intergalactic with mystery
As if there's still some place
The past will be allowed to exist.

1 comment:

the walking man said...

We are the unfortunate who live in the present knowing our past was a much better place.