I’m watching a freight now, headed North to Who Knows Where. It carries tank cars with chemicals, empty refuse receptacles, plain box cars, one of which bears a stunning fresco of graffiti. (We could write about how creating beauty in this culture is an act of vandalism. That begs the question, “What is all that stuff in the museums then?”)
South bound #89 The Palmetto passes through, bound for Savannah. I have a private fantasy of a certain woman in Savannah boarding that train Northbound for a clandestine tryst, dirty, sweaty liaison, purging our bodies of the potential energy stored too long.
I want to drink the coffee I brewed. And just sit some more,wondering when J will return.