You drive away from the Public
Library at four p.m. in dusty 
yellow light. Ahead of you the bank 
clock says it’s ninety-five degrees. 
You have to stop for the freight train,
so you glance behind you down Main
and there is no one there, but only 
the shabby thin sunglazed windows 
and the wider light silting down
on the white street. The few cars 
looking abandoned, the City Hall with 
its blank windows, and Carlos’ Cafe
with only one blue pickup parked
in front. Ahead of you there pass
the freight cars, one second long 
each, between the bank clock,
4:05, 95, 4:05, 95, 4:05, 95.
You listen to the roar, light falling 
on your shoulder, and the heat
and whiteness behind grows in your head
until you are listening to nothing.