Little Falls

Poem by Rick Mullin

He waited with her. It was their routine.

Arriving just before the 6:08,

she’d see him standing by the yellow line,

the lonely figure in a Hopper scene.

She’d come beside him in her solemn state

of drowsy purpose, frowning as her fine

blonde hair moved softly with the breeze.

The other dawn commuters, few and far

between, stood back in the forsaken zone

where shadows cross the tracks into the trees

until they flash against the seventh car.

She smelled the metal and the man’s cologne

and felt the sudden rush of shattered air,

the light that settles on her moment there.