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Along the Canal Path MAG
A boy is walking with the weeds
pushing up from the train rail's slats
Snagging his faded corduroy,
tangling
his fear into a withering.
The air is sharp and wet, he
smells autumn and Upstate
New York unpaved back roads.
The dust chokes up from his
memories, seizes his future.
The weeds at his ankles are
brown. This is still
summertime. The heat did them in,
it's all brown. On autumn
nights, what will the frost busy itself with?
Everything is already dead.
© Anonymous
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