Impostor

She said “you’re always running,”

while getting ready

to ankle herself and I say

baby, baby, it ain’t that at all

we’re all just silver boxcars

clanking our way

across the chains of America

we’re all just coal

and brake dust

swept up in piles

in the switchyard

where the old man gather

and shoot the s**t

stories from their youth;

She said “you’re an impostor,”

and you know sometimes

it feels that way

but mostly it feel like

we’re those silver boxcars

who hit the switch

with the coal box hot

and the steam puffing

like our passion once did;

The moon is full,

the moon always has the Earth

and it shines down

on wet grass slick with midnight dew

on the old men, shooting their s**t

on the animals who burrow in the cold

and on us, you with your ankle

and me with my wounds

on our tracks

now separate

silver

chains across America.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Lots of interesting images and metaphors in this one. The silver boxcars and brake dust are really unique. They, along with the old men, suggest those who feel their best days are behind them, and now is the time to just enjoy what remains. The speaker mentions his wounds toward the end, possibly indicating he looks upon himself as a survivor, nothing more. On the other hand, the full moon and the way it has the earth, has a strangely reassuring sound to it. The mention of the separate tracks indicates the speaker and the ankle lady (what's that about, anyway?) are splits. A somber, moving piece.

[JR]

Thanks John, you read that well as always. "Ankle" is a 20s term for leaving, like "let's ankle out of here."

[JR]

1920's... I guess I have to be more specific...