Boxcars and Broomsticks

by davidchrzanowskipoetry

Where have all the boxcars and broomsticks gone? Laid to waste under cobbles and fish shop wrappers; smells lost to modern day health and safety etiquette. A fantasy utopia of romantic dreams and past occasions, now defunct beside fallen fences. I lie longing for a moment that I orchestrated, but I always find broken strings and out-of-tune sounds that cast me back under diminished sheets. A minor longing for major pain is cooking food with the oven switched off. Segments of eras separated by a single windowpane. Myself clogged, waiting without change for the next bus. This is no heavenly way to die. The rough canvass choking brought about by the longing of, once again, witnessing wooden boxcars and broomsticks chasing ageing cobbles.

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