By: Benjamin J. Kirby
Today I heard a train whistle blow
in a town a hundred miles from tracks
Standing at the edge of a forgotten forge
time is the torch that galvanizes meaning
Today I saw a silver car, shimmering with heat
on an ice-bound road, north of Boston
The still of the lathe is breathtaking
the words no longer turn like they used to
Today I wandered through a park
and heard the laugh of a baby who would never know me
The saw, less sharp, the lines, less true
there is no blueprint, no way back home
I shut my eyes and wait for the whistle cry
Benjamin J. Kirby is a writer of fiction, essays, and poetry living in St. Petersburg, Florida. His work can be found in Wingless Dreamer, the Lewis County Writer's Guild, and online. Born in western North Carolina and raised in Little Rock, Arkansas, Benjamin lives in St. Petersburg, Florida with his wife and three children.
"Heading out one morning to a coffee shop, I saw a metallic silver car, which looked an awful lot like a rocket ship, on the bed of a truck. As fascinating as it was, I realized I would likely never see that car again. Where was it from? Where was it going? Why? I began to think about the things we encounter, day in and day out, that we will never know, never come in contact with again. The realization is that in addition to an endless forward march, time is cruel to us in a number of ways."