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Sheri Gabbert
Freedom
I try to slip away
near the ever busy track
to watch the afternoon train.
I know these tracks lead
somewhere.
They come from rusty towns
scattered among dry winter wheat
and withered field after field
of Kansas corn and cattle
clustered on barren ground.
Trains pass here between
grain elevators and the WPA
high school no on learns
in, but that we all love
on Friday nights.
Kansas will never be far enough
behind me, for better or worse,
like my marriage and bruises,
no matter how sanctified both are
on my Sunday face.
After the train has passed on time,
one more time, my old boots whisper,
shake off the prairie,
only the dying stay here.
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