A small poem that I like a great deal, because it
has a little kind of magical moment
in it, where the poet and the poem become one.
And in some odd way, the reader becomes part of that too.
It's called, Outside Fargo, North Dakota.
Along the sprawled body of the derailed Great Northern freight
car, I strike a match slowly and lift it slowly.
No wind.
Beyond town, three heavy white horses
wade all the way to their shoulders in a silo shadow.
Suddenly, the freight car lurches.
The door slams back.
A man with a flashlight calls me, good evening.
I nod as I write, good evening--
lonely and sick for home.