Between the fantasy and the perception
A space lies infinitesimally vast
And the memory of even
Interperceived
Events stretches shrinks and
Distorts vis-à-vis an objective
Viewpoint held by no one
At all. When such memory
Is repackaged with at best
Approximate language spoken
to another who writes this
From a memory of long ago
Fiction results but a mistake
Would be to regard it as false.
The apex was the middle of the
Cascades between Wenatchee
And Seattle, on a flatcar
The kind with ends sidetracked
He said to the older guy
Who was maybe 22
To whom Rhosonny had lied
About already knowing how to ride
The rails not stating but implying
That he’d ridden freight before
Which he had but not as a hobo
Yet justly confident from within
His ignorance that the railroad men
Would like him led his elder to the
Freight yard and they got on this train
Now stopped in the middle of
Mountains to which they rode
So ecstatic they danced the whole
Way to the rhythms of the train.
“I wish I had a cigarette”
Then ran to the end of the car to
Lean out and watch the train for which
They’d sidetracked go nearly
Empty down the mountain
A figure leaned out from the
Train clatter a voice broke through
‘Tobacco” as he whooshed by
And a full pouch of Bugler
With papers landed on the floor
Of their car for the rest
Of the ride through the North Cascades
Neither was sure whether he
Or the stars themselves danced.
But the deeper one came
After they’d parted
(Forever?) and he’d
Drunk a case of beer with
Three Native American Korean
War vets who lived on the docs
And the four of them passed
Out on a pier in the afternoon sun
Years later she said
“I can always tell when you’re in Seattle because whenever the weather is nice you’re here and whenever you’re here the weather is nice”
Since he’d never seen rain
In Seattle though there fairly often
After sleeping it off he got up
To walk to the freight yard
The three stood said they’d ride
With him. At the next pier stands
An enormous man, only about 8 inches
Taller than 6 foot 2 Rhosonny
But as broad as two men
No visible fat a black suit
And pony tail. “My brother”
Arm outstretched to the Puget Sound
“Died there last year”
His eyes and Rhosonny’s eye
Met and having met held
In silence through more than one
Ship’s blast when a fielder’s glove
Sized hand gripped his shoulder
“You travel alone. Like me
You travel alone.”
The other three Natives
Turned on heel and marched off
The hand remained fixed
Eyes locked and time was
A plaything of there.
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