At night I lie face down into my pillow. The lights, long turned off, have stopped buzzing. The cat, thinking everyone in the house is asleep, has decided to rest as well. A night wind creeps across my sheets, making them lap the small of my back. Outside of the window, past three houses and on the other side of the road the train runs. It runs north, away from the city. It carries large steel beams, yellow stained boxes of wood, and wired cages filled with styrofoam blocks. The material is headed north, away from the city. It will arrive early in the morning, when it is still dark. A man dressed in worn denim, whose face resembles the same, will unload the material into a dark, hollow warehouse. He will be the last person to touch the wood, steel, and caged styrofoam for a long time.
I lie face down, my eyes, my nose, my mouth all concealed. Aside from the rhythm of my sheets, all my exposed ears can hear is the sorrowful journey of the material up north, away from the city. The large steel beams stack cold and silent on top one another. They nod against the yellow stained boxes of wood, shuffling along the rattling cages. The stagnant air in the boxcar hums a low G chord. Sounds of unrest are drowned by the train's night whistle.
I fall asleep to the march. My head turns on to its side. My lips part in silent breathes. I will be the last person to hear the wood, steel, and caged styrofoam for a long time.
No comments:
Post a Comment