Crispy crack the leaves crunch
under foot
as I walk along the tracks
while the brisk breeze breaks
my chapped red cheeks
at one o’clock on Friday.

The tracks start to rumble
as the train whistle
sounds around
the corner.

The fading sun finds
its way
through tight timber fingers
at the top of
this man made cliff
just beyond
these (rumbling) cold iron tracks.

I pick up a dusty rusted
railroad spike and
place its point against
my wrist.

Not one or two or
even three
really pierced his skin
that day
but perhaps as many as
I left behind
on the tracks
at one o’clock on Friday.

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