Soon the Sun

Like butter squeezed between a baby’s fingers
The heavy voice forces itself out the window
The deep heaving sobs carried off
On the backs of the fat spring mosquitoes

The grinding of the train on the track
Is muted by the throaty whistle
The whistle that echoes across the yards

A bell clangs loudly – the cars shift their weight

The voice is hushed now – the sobbing less violent
Soon the sun – soon the solace
Of the paper-boy and the garbage trucks
And the lawn mowers and the police cars
And the dogs in the yards and the kids on the stoops
The commuter trains will replace the freighters
Soon the sun

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