at the blue hour

at the blue hour

I let the sunset outrun me

as I board

the last train home. 

thought I outgrew 

these old habits, 

and yet 

I still sit 

in the window seat

to watch 

my reflection ripple

across amber fields, 

wondering 

how it must feel 

to hop the fence--

join the imaginary friend

who was always 

running, 

running alongside.

a flock of geese 

glides past as one, 

cutting, 

angular--

their edges teasing

the clouds. 

I used to collect 

their feathers, 

left behind 

like wilted leaves--

soft and unbroken. 

lather them 

with hand soap--

you said 

they were dirty; 

the fibers darkening

into clumps.

how easily 

they came apart, 

those split ends, 

loose stitches 

running out. 

you told me 

feathers were a bad omen, 

wisps fallen away 

from home. 

I think

we both knew 

they were easier to blame

than the flock.