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2:24 a.m.
.
Train blurs going past
2:24 on my radio’s green screen
night darkness except the cross-arms’
red lights flashing
the sound the strobe the noise
of motion as I sit still
warning bell clanging still
coming home from O’Keef’s
the noise thrumming thunder over
Hotel California — my head bobs in time
my head bobs in time my head bobs
.
I see a face.
.
There’s a small face bright
bright a flash as the long train passes still passing
the yellow cars maroon cars graffitied cars pass
.
Eyes meet he sees me he sees
as the high note of the guitar solo rings
to meet the wailing bell
.
Sees the truck now behind me headlights
glare in my rearview engine loud as the train
train now done and the gate arms rise
high-beams me and revs engine heat like
monster’s breath See
the driver’s arm thrust waving long
shouts horn blaring
so I go
drive into the eyes
still there
.
Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry while recovering from a disability-causing injury. Three chapbooks: Bloodline (Soma Publishing), Exposed (Hidden Constellation Press), and New Paths to Eden (Kelsay Books). He lives near Princeton, NJ.
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North of Oxford 