The End of the Line

Finally the last passengers

Have gotten off the trolley:

A man with hair

The color and texture of damp corn tassels,

Two black women in Lycra

Jackets, a mother and daughter.

And you have passed the tenements,

The boarded warehouses, the auto graveyards.

You say goodnight to the conductor.

He says goodnight, take care.

When you step down, heavy as a stallion,

You find an eighth of an inch of snow,

Fresh and crisp,

On the ground, resting on plant stubble,

Ridged mud, pieces of broken pavement:

This is lovely, and you did not expect it.

The clear air filled with ice

Particles stings your face,

When you breathe it hits

Your upper nasal passages like cocaine,

A full moon lights

The countryside a few miles off.

You wipe your eyes with your glove.

You feel newborn.

A dim red light,

The trolley has started back

When you begin to run.