The Derailment and Other Things We Left Behind

A coal train jumps the tracks by the little league field,

steel twisting, black smoke curling into the sky.

Men in yellow swarm in with yellow tape,

cordon off the wreck, then disappear.

—

We’ll go back to hitting grounders,

telling stories about a kid

who will take his father’s gun to the dugout,

his name spoken in whispers for years.

—

John Lennon will die. I won’t make All-Stars.

Matt will get a Boa Constrictor, name it Piedmont,

slip his hand up Kelly B’s shirt,

say her nipple feels like the hook of a perfect song.

—

After that, she’ll carry herself differently.

I’ll quit baseball, take up cigarettes,

tear the sleeves off my jean jacket,

spend weekends in someone’s basement, eyes red, lungs full.

—

I’ll taste Matt’s sister in the backseat,

her breath warm against my neck,

ghosts watching from the edges,

or maybe not watching at all.

—

Steely Dan warbles in the tape deck,

blue eyeshadow smears like a fading bruise,

root beer lip gloss, the thrill of breaking rules,

the quiet rebellion of a small town night.

—

There won’t be much left to say after that.

But walking home past the derailed train,

I will hum something low and half-remembered,

a song no one will sing again.