when the air is so crisp
that sound becomes
almost too defined...
these are the nights when
I lay awake in bed and
I can hear the
train whistle blowing
from all the way
down in Columbia,
along the bridge that
burned for our freedom
in an unsung feat of
brilliance.
Perhaps I feel so
at home in this
land along the Susquehanna
because much like its forefathers,
I am the drop that starts the ripple
and the sulfur cap on each matchstick
always the first to
burn out and fade away,
basking the the knowledge that,
while I may be forgotten,
what I have done
and what I will do
will live on long after
my name dies out.