It Happened Some Years Ago
It was a wet spring morning in
April—there was melted snow—
when I boarded a train in
Rochester, I remember
the carriages were empty. I sat
by the window. “Last call,” boomed
the conductor. The PA system crackled.
“All aboard the train to Boston.”
Wheels screeched beneath
me, bells rang sharp. We rolled
forward, the countryside shrouded
by glass.
We passed yellow hills dotted
with tan calves, ponds, and
maple trees— with spiles that held
white buckets—budding wildflowers,
abandoned plows. I saw
wind whirl through milkweeds and
push a vacant swing. Then came
the smog,
a wisp at first, which
turned to clouds, which turned
to muddy haze that
dirtied the terrain.
We passed trees with
discolored leaves, and piss-colored
grass. Soot-stained concrete and
buildings abandoned en masse.
Planes rumbled overhead, and I
wished for untamed rains to wash
the landscape’s stains. I wished for
a time gone past.
