Bum Ticker

“Cold hands
warm heart”
you smiled and said
as your fingers
wound in mine

watching as
the east
turned red
across the Norfolk
Southern line

A year ago
or was it
two
(my memory -
it’s useless)

a camp beside
the Little
Sioux,
a boneyard of
cabooses

Never been one
quick
to split
my scraps or butts
or mission bread

never gave much
thought
to it
or asked what swam
inside your head

I could’ve been
a lot
of things
(or so I often
told you)

but that
was just
my ramblings,
a bill of goods
I sold you

The ties are choked
with weeds
and haws,
the rails are rough
and rusted;

(my hands
are always
cold because
my stupid heart
is busted.)