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

back