For weeks, then months, they sit undisturbed
on a makeshift shelf in your brother's musty garage,
the gray-white residue that once answered
small cardboard box, unadorned and anonymous.
Drums of exterior paint and car exhaust
surround you now, boxes of tools, and bulky
winter clothing packed in large plastic containers,
the ordinary stuff of life in process.
This is not the respite that I would have wished
or imagined for you, dear friend; though
you will be relieved to know that this stop is not
final, only a way station before the long drive
out of state where you will be scattered,
per your request, out near the railroad tracks
which run the length of your old hometown,
where your mind -- always too sharp and too busy
for its own good -- could wander with neither
weight nor interruption, and your body
could walk and walk never losing its way back.
It's a walk I can't make with you; but should I hear
the call of that Illinois Central, rising
above the chatter of birds and traffic hum,
declaring its own speed and distance, at just
the right angle, I'll say they're playing our song,
as if I could remember the words or tune,
as if the grain and grit of your slender bones
were somehow able to dance again.
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