and seasons have come and gone,

like railway cars

whose late passenger stands

staring – wondering if it was in fact

a blown fuse that

stopped the clock and caused

the burnt toast –

he stands

on the same old porch,

surveying the need for yearly repairs,

while fingering a new cigarette

as the smoke swirls against his face

as his thoughts rise around

the what was,

the what never was,

the will she,

might she,

does she still, and

I think to myself

how thankful

I am that he

does not,

will not,

could not know

a damn thing –

something like smoke.