Honorable Mention in the 2015 James Vaughan Poetry Contest
by Brian Cronwall
Under shooting stars, the quick commas of night,
a train rolls on. The next depot is in sight.
When will we get there? It’s cold in North Platte;
if you get off at the station at midnight,
you’ll freeze your nose hairs for sure. And if you step out
in Gila Bend, you’ll break into an instant sweat.
The same stars watch over both. We’re not
in either place yet, but we soon could be. Continue reading