Wassaic

disgorging from each car at the
end of this railway line, are the
grey men with hats and cases, news-
papers folded under their arms

some met by wives in sleek sedans--
others walk home in the twilight
quietly approaching, the roar of the
train ebbing away to nothing, as if
it never were

the promise of a moon later, low-hanging
over the station, a
gleaming dinnerplate suspended as if
in a catalogue for new brides,
pale white, brighter than electricity

music rising up, the cricket song,
the scratch of matches, the winding of
the clock--at the tone the time will
be---