I traced rolling train cars
from a car window, counting
each one until they passed,
or they smeared together indefinitely.
Distance traveled over time amounts
to speed; speed is relative
and we are along for the ride, moving
to never return. I have grown
sixty-five inches above ground,
and my feet passed like train cars
from Leander, up I-35, to Denton,
totaling two-hundred twelve miles.
Four-hundred seventy-four days
my dresser stays in the corner, but
the clothes within have been tossed out,
given away, bought again. My heart
broke seven-hundred fifty-one
days ago, and I choke on memories
along Bernard and Carroll,
but each season soothes them down.
The train cars wail for a time and place
they once knew, never to be the same.