The 3:17 Freight

Old versionsbeside the bins.Dried paint.A cracked drum.A photographtoo dark to keep.Pages crossed out.A melodythat became another melody.At 3:17the crossing closes.The train arrives.Car after car.Too many.Do not count them.The city goes stillwhile it passes.Not empty.Listening.All those discarded thingssuddenly look different.Not failures.Materialthat got something elseto the next version.The final car passes.A strange gratitudefor everythingthat did not need to survive.Behind the tracksfog is already coming.