Poetry
Solitude
Steam train departing a very long trip
I am neither the bell nor
the station master ringing the bell, I am not
the train, or the stack, cowcatcher or caboose, I am not the iron
tracks or the steam, not the pinions or pistons
or rods, I am a lack
in the space between awnings and overhangs, a lack where
luggage bumps together in the storage compartments, a lack of
decision to step off the train and embrace a lover,
I am the lack of answer she swallowed
when her lips stumbled, lack when
her hair kerchief sailed out the window,
Sylvia felt a lack, I am a lack, because feeling
and being are the same, what
I feel is a lack, knitted in my bones, in the words
written on paper, in the spaces between
letters, in the white creases
of her face and in the spaces between her curls, I
feel a lack, therefore,
I am a lack, the swallows have built a nest
in the irons, the shelter makes
an umbrella over arrivals and departures and
a woman waves to a man with her hair
kerchief in his hand.
Hey, I’m Roman. I’m working on my debut novel, 20xx, a work in magical realism. I write on Substack.
