Greendale

If you listen
you can hear
the roar and unsteady throb
of the downstairs furnace,
and then the hiss of
old-fashioned radiators.

One in particular
startles me alert — the one near
my right ear. Pops, hisses,
and then it’s gone; maybe
a slight noise, barely above
audibility, remains.

Far off, down
at the street’s end,
a train blows its horn.
It always does about this time
each day. Don’t know why.
Some rule it must follow, I think.

It’s like this
every morning, day in,
night out. Rules must
be followed, I guess. Why
I sit here with everything done
that I need to do. Why I sit here

alone, thinking of
how this world goes on and on.
Even without me it will do so,
I think. Then what will happen
is that someone will notice it until
it crumbles. Like me, it shall crumble;

as I go
so shall it go — unnoticed
by most, paid attention to by
a few, focused on by one, I trust.
Likely this will be the only poem
about it; still, I can hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T