Rails clack, & the Indiana RR blares
midnight, or close to
History’s brakes squeal brazenly in this town–
Sleepless and sweating
because of a kaput air conditioner, we toss
on a makeshift bed made from
a 2-inch foam mat atop
years of green plastic Walmart totes overstuffed
with your broken dreams.
You light up again from your window perch.
Meandering smoke permeates 3AM
(and me, a non-smoker),
Staring down at dusky Church Street.
Rather unassuming, the door to Village Apt. 13.
You could’ve heard behind it
‘Love is in the Air’ and groans of
our passion’s shamelessness.
There, abandoned & by yourself,
you had it all worked out;
poetically wrote yourself down & watched
the traps, snares, and lures
you subtly set.
You wished for an easy catch to witness
your porcelain angels & your ancient dolls
who occupied your stuffy lair.
Just to the left of the building,
a Civil War cemetery haunts
directly below your window,
and the long country road flanked
by cornfields for miles strolled by us
that autumn star-crested night.
Sunrise arrives with burning, bleary eyes.
I frown at the tumultuous tree
that woke me,
filled with seven bad blackbirds.
Rattling in the kitchen,
Maxwell House in Mr. Coffee
roasts a mild, mellow aroma blending
with my murky Marlboro remembrances
© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) –Limericist 2015