K. A. McGOWAN

YES, YOU, MAVERICK

Say after, two, three years
of war, college, the road
you return to the homeland.
It's smaller than you imagined,
and you want it just like you imagined.
The Trestle is a pile of smoking creosote,
and what the railroad can't burn
what used to be the top beam
with your spray-painted name
is at ground level.
You speak with a slight accent,
eyes wild with new time zones,
and recent wives keep their husbands
at a safe distance.
You back for good,
some might ask, wondering
if they should come closer.
You tell them you don't know.
What is known is like writing
a poem about a painting
from another tongue, another age.
A place where locomotives still move
through the night.

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