Lunes- July 4

Hourly, trains squeal
with people.
The freight is silent.

The whistle is long
with rumbling
caked under it, soft

like the glass becomes
under your cheek
as you try to sleep.

Time jerks with the stops
the local
obliges. You wake

less frequently now;
you know where
the long stretches are

across bridges, past
countryside,
through god-lost small towns.

You can't even hear
the whistle
after long enough.

But it wakes others;
it wakes me,
and I imagine

others as well, tied
up in dreams
as best they can be

while still listening
for those sounds
of the world outside

that pass knowingly,
that will pass
soon, soon, soon enough

for us.