Return at evening

The one night train
no longer stops at the edge
of town, but from the wood porch dark
we hear the stretched ghost of a whistle,
as though a faint chord
from Grandfather's harmonica
still trails these hills
like smoke from decades back.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...