we roll on ~ twisting, winding, rumbling
through steep wooded hillsides
blanketed by two feet of freshly fallen snow
glimpses of the countryside through rain spattered windows
grainy images from a silent movie
slender trees reflected off the surface
of a rock riddled stream
except for the bongo rhythm of steel wheels
on clackety tracks, it’s mostly quiet
travelers in their own orbits
like distant planets in the cosmic dust of space
ears plugged
eyes gazing at illuminated screens
thumbs diddling text messages
a soldier in fatigues, just back from deployment
tattoos on his knuckles, his face a mask
of sorrows and regrets
a cell phone rings
the woman in the seat behind me
screaming hysterically in Spanish
the conductor makes a garbled announcement
two priests in the row in front of me
take their bags and move up the aisle
getting off at the next stop
on the outskirts of an old industrial town as night falls
we trundle past scrapyards and smokestacks
piles of red brick lie half submerged in the bend of the river
a slag heap in a field near an abandoned smelting furnace
muddy vacant lots, broken glass and beer cans in puddles
derelict factory buildings and tumbledown warehouses
rusty, crumbling, desolate
long gone and never coming back
Michael Gillan Maxwell is a writer and visual artist in the Finger Lakes Region of New York state. Maxwell writes short fiction, poetry, songs, essays, recipes and irate letters to his legislators. His work has been featured in a number of journals and anthologies and he serves as associate flash fiction editor for jmww quarterly journal. A teller of tales and singer of songs, he’s prone to random outbursts, may spontaneously combust or break into song at any moment and might be occasionally found ranting and raving on his website:
Your Own Backyard http://michaelgillanmaxwell.com
–Art by Charles Simms
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