at the crossing

they missed each other at the crossing:
each of them on different ways,
riding to their destinations —
vagabonds and stowaways —

and, like time, they rolled but one way:
forward, onward, to the end —
missing their one chance connection,
and the trip that could have been

now he lingers at the crossing,
now she thinks about that track:
long the echoed whistle fading,
but there’s no real going


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