AMTRAK STOP AT WESTERLY, MASS.
by Rich Accetta-Evans
The landscape slides slowly, then slower, then stops.
The low sun, slowly, toward the river drops.
I turn in my seat and look through the glass.
A railway station stands in a field of brown grass
Which is not even stirred by an autumn breeze
But is quietly waiting for next winter's freeze.
A rusty freight car on a side track there
Is surrounded by trees which are stunted and bare.
After just a few seconds or eons have passed
Someone in charge must decide that at last
It is time for my train to move down the track,
For the view starts again its slow slide back.
