‘My feet are cold, wet and heavy from long wading in a river. Now I shall go walk on dry land,’ I said . . . I went along a spur of railroad tracks, out of a town and out of that phase of my life.
—Sherwood Anderson, A Story Teller’s Story
His third day gone, he wanders from the tracks
into a fallow field, its tangled weeds
ripping around his ankles like rotten fabric
and slowing him down. Haggard and winded, he stops
to look things over. Behind him is a city,
its horizon dark as war, and the small factory
he owns and has left mid-letter. To the west a train
huffs its dense progress toward the sunset.
It is the last day of November, 1912.
The glowering sky is broken with yellow light,
the air is sharp and smoke tinged, and he whispers
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.
