walking westward, along the tracks
he barely notices the little town, just ahead
just a bag upon his back
it holds bread, a little water,
and a blanket for the midnight cool
the beginning has no memory.
the ending holds no future
so all there is, is what he is
here and now
i can't tell you what he thinks
for it's not yours to know,
only yours to disregard
the Post Office, becomes a hive
for pregnant anxiety
the banker checks his watch
as the desperate line to the door
wash is hung in a rush
to beat the coming rain
and the yellow buses
swell to fill with the pale young
there's a funeral today,
a sale at johnson's thrift,
and the trackside bar
is flashing it's dull neon
the town is now behind him
and the not -notice was mutual
except for the sheriff
who always doubts the innocent
no one's going anywhere
though everyone
thinks they are
