The Butler Pennsylvania Poems
Room with Window Facing West
If only I could lie in that bed again
late on winter nights and listen
wouldn't I hear the steam engines
running along the creek
out beyond the hill
or the shifting of freight cars
in the yards under the bridge,
and be carried back by those sounds
to boyhood summer nights
when I would lie in bed, listening,
in sheets tangled
asking my sleepless self
what "Chicago" meant,
that haunting word
heard in whispers spoken
from tongues of boys
I thought were friends
who tossed their heads back
to slur mocking gibes at me:
Some day, Kid, when you grow up,
you'll find out what's happening.
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Room with Window Facing West
If only I could lie in that bed again
late on winter nights and listen
wouldn't I hear the steam engines
running along the creek
out beyond the hill
or the shifting of freight cars
in the yards under the bridge,
and be carried back by those sounds
to boyhood summer nights
when I would lie in bed, listening,
in sheets tangled
asking my sleepless self
what "Chicago" meant,
that haunting word
heard in whispers spoken
from tongues of boys
I thought were friends
who tossed their heads back
to slur mocking gibes at me:
Some day, Kid, when you grow up,
you'll find out what's happening.
Next Home
Comment