Author’s Note: I know I haven’t posted a real poem in a while but it’s only because I’ve been working on a whole lot of things. So here’s a sneak peek of one of the poems I’m working on, about living in the South and growing up in a small town.
I was born and raised in a town born and raised by trains.
At night, when the train sang and sighed, my father’s eyes, like lightning bugs, shone through the quiet backporch lights.
He’d cock one burly finger in the air, like the stern arm of a clock. “Listen,” he’d whisper, as if the train would be frightened away by his big, wide voice.
“You can hear the train.”