Railroad blues.

Just when I thought
I finally found you,
silence.

The confusion
of calling to apologize
and receiving an apology.

And then...
Until now?

The immensely stupid palm tree
near your window,
Satie in your notes,
and Borges in your quotes,
should name you
(yes, you).

Tomorrow,
at my station
7-8:30
(like ALL Saturdays),
I'll have five more written pieces.
Will they be happy ones?