Unmounted oilgraph // 6.5” x 9"

The wind blows the curtain
In the air is fall and the distant train

From here the tracks are hidden
in the hills and though the piano needs tuning
I played the hymn you showed me once

My left hand is rusty and i hurry the notes
to finish before it passes and vow
this will be the last time I will ever put
this memory to the keys

But the train is long today
It just keeps coming
and I start it again

The whistle blows around the part
where it goes "Jesus is calling..."
and I won't cry
Not now
Not today and i start in again faster
to burn it from my fingers
and yesterday in town
a homeless woman wore your perfume
and ripped away every board of forgetting
I nailed over your name. 

I'm beaten. 

"Jesus is calling....calling..."
My left hand eases in the key of G
remembering the bridge
and I can smell the dust of wood rise up
from the keys
"...come home....come...home"

In the silence at the finish
the curtain still waves in its place

The train had passed an hour ago