There is never betrayal
in the space between boxcars
where his face still tilts towards
the old life he left. The new life
has already scrawled itself in graffiti
pastels that end with an imperative
and steel-coupled air. She should live
in that swaying niche, call the stops
in a gospel cadence far above
his range. Fix him to the honest
undercarriage as all the beguiling
towns slide by.
