Your life of chewed hambones,
broken strings, hearing a sound
that resembled a whistle,
trailed you at a distance,
sometimes beside you,
& on one occasion
your feet became shivering fish.
You avoided your own wedding
to a pale faced girl your parents chose
for her outstanding punctuality.
It seemed you were always walking
along railroad tracks, either side,
East or West. Under yellow sky.
One day the train will stop.
The whistle ceases
& the train will take you
where she waits,
a platform too hard on the eyes,
the only girl you ever slept with
expecting you for once
to be on time.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. In his spare time, he talks to pissed off cab drivers and is still looking for the perfect cheeseburger. His work has appeared or will soon appear in Prick of the Spindle, Smokelong Quarterly, Nano Fiction, Staccato Fiction, Camroc Press, Decomp, and Lonesome Fowl. Kyle has a first book of poetry due out soon, called Fuzzy Logic. Kyle does not deal with numbers.