Half a mile from dawn, I walk along
the fence of the farthest corners

of Norfolk Southern railyard.
A quiet mockingbird on barbed wire.

Morning glory weaving around chainlinks
offers blue flowers to earlybird bees.

Tracks of abandonment
lay parallel like fingers of dry rivers.

A line of dirty silver cars, one painted
in red unartistic letters: I LIKE PAIN.

Perspiring, I become part
of the humidity of late summer days.

I hear a rabbit say carpe diem.
I pretend not to understand. I take

10,000 steps a day due to fear
of diabetes and Lou Gehrig's Disease.

I try to appease my history of heart
failure, but I can't stop a locomotive.

On the way home, I know what I need
to do: spray the new grass seed,

put the trash bin on the curb,
get ready for work. I don't know

the exact expiration date of purpose,
but I know the holes in the fence.