once a week i make the drive

to the Austen post office box

I take the detour 

through our old neighborhood

see all the Chevy Impalas in their frontyards

up on blocks

and I park in an alley

and I read through the postcards

you continue to send

where as indirectly as you can

you ask what I remember

I like these torture devices

from my old best friend

well I'll tell you what I know

like I swore I always would

I don't think it's going to do you any good



I remember the train 

heading south out of Bangkok 

down toward the water



I always get a late starte

when the sun's going down

and the traffic's thinning out

and the glare is hard to take

I wish the West Texas highway 

was a mobius strip

I could ride it out forever

when I feel my heart break

I almost swear I hear it happen

it's that clear and that hard

I come in off the highway

and I park in my front yard

I fall out of the car

like a hostage from a plane

think of you a while

start wishing it would rain



and I remember the train

headed south out of Bangkok 

down toward the water



I come into the house

put on a pot of coffee

walk the floors a little while

I set your postcard on a table

with all the others like it

I start sorting through the pile

I check the pictures and the postmarks

and the captions and the stamps

for signs of any pattern at all

when I come up empty handed

the feeling almost overwhelms me

I let a few of my defenses fall

and I smile a bitter smile

it's not a pretty thing to see

I think about a railroad platform 

back in 1983



and I remember the train

headed south out of Bangkok down

down toward the water