The Amtrak train pulls into the Kirkwood train station.
In the slowness, the mental urgency of arrival,
in the emotional upheaval of dislocation and its death-like
peacefulness, the insignificant station stands as
you watch the evening rising from the parting of the tracks.
The choice lies there in front of you: you could step down,
stop, take the risk and find out about the soul that might
exist in this town, or you could stay just where you are,
above the ground, feeling unreal and finite, carried from
and to certain places which you think you know all about.
The journey is cadenced with these halts, with the nearing
of these platforms lying pure and untainted in the dusk.
Two or three people might stand there watching, humble
in the way they stand, the way they hold their only luggage,
the way they speak of the town's distance from the city.
The blood of life seems to have reached them last,
yet here they are, presences along the railroad tracks,
the materialisation of your ability to stop and reach out.
You feel the coming of a storm in clouds rippled like waves.
As the time for deciding vanishes, the train resumes
its haunting lulling speed and Kirkwood, Missouri, acquires
a space in your memory which you'll never know is there.





