From the platform, iron iterates way into time.
The tracks are staples intervaled along my father’s spine.
Before me might be somebody’s father, waited for — white
choker of a condor, dry lips of lifelong acolyte.
I barely brush his arm, so as not to make him start.
Who knows how he might play out: cave in, tear apart?
He deeds toward me, wet wood breakable. All in all
of direst bark. This is how it starts, at last, I recall.
“I thought you were someone, otherwise.”
The rail lines rattle like beetle files.
He frowns. Establishes his palms.
“Tell me. Does that happen often, lamb?”