Waiting for the Train to Come.

We go to the track
   to gather
   the wreck
     of wood & hardware
     & with each umber
   stick build our slum
   in the alpine fir,
waiting for the train to come.

In whispers, our fingers black
   with dirt fragrant & bitter,
   we hold a wake
     for a dead bird
     with one red feather
   until we hear the hum
   deep in the alpine fir,
waiting for the train to come.

You say we live on a lake
   & fish every day but prefer
   to snack
     on chocolate squares
     sold at the city fair
   on Saturdays with cakes & gum.
   You say this in the alpine fir,
waiting for the train to come.

It approaches on the hour,
   sounding like a great drum,
   as we play in the alpine fir
waiting for the train to come.