AMTRAK SOUTH

by Lyn Lifshin

slithers past
the backs of houses.
One’s boarded up,
glass maybe some
body threw a chair
through. Blue
Buick, a Why Pay
More billboard.
Grey air. Rusty
cars. Erie Lackawanna,
a blood slash in
mist as we move
past cat tails.
Nothing’s green
yet. Piled rail
ties. West of Albany,
Rennsalear where we
stop, change engines
as the grey goes to
grey green light
over the Hudson.
Days like this
I hate George
Bush, in white paint
on a metal rain
pigeons swoop from
to discarded plastic,
to dark bags of
garbage near where
a woman on the platform
dangles a cigarette
from her blood lips


*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm