Seattle, at the old World's Fair
He stands by the helm, his face full of blue

from the buildings at twilight, his hand

knuckled around a metal pole that keeps him

from falling, as he flies past the vaults

of startled mannequins, the red ohs of their lips.

Christmas lights are also falling

through the windshield, onto his chest:

right side green, left side red —

dark then back again. 
Wait…my father is not moving yet:

no one has claimed the worn leather throne. 

But his thoughts are moving, wondering

whether movement is the same as growing old

in the province of space, not time. Inside his shoes,

his toes are as blue as the city streets,

and the drum in his chest, his red-lit chest,

is growing dim. He knows the train he's about to ride

has one rail: no steering, no turns.

And the only skill is in the brake. 
The brake. His lips roll over the words:

the dead man's brake. And a small boy

— come to ride up front — hears him,

tugs my father's coat and asks:

Hey mister, are you the driver of this train?
From Time Will Clean the Carcass Bones: Selected and New Poems, Copper Canyon Press, 2016. Published with permission.

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