Walking; late sunset; North Carolina.
The red bricks mute the sun's glare.
The asphalt exhales at every street corner.
Cats and dogs play in the streets before
running to their homes in this
Southern town where the Blue Ridge Mountains
rise all around.

My feet plow through the
humidity and the dew on Ashe Street
going towards Prospect or Wheeler.
The porches and the cars are deserted,
no chance of a friendly wave or
'Hello' - those days long gone so that
not even an echo of their remembrance remains.

Nearing High Circle - a sharp curve
then suddenly a steep hill that nearly
shreds the leather beneath my toes
as they pass small wooden houses

that soon become large brick ones
at the top of the hill where neighbors
gossip on the phone, almost always
staying indoors ignoring the sun.

The words "You're not in that circle. You'll always be
on the outside looking in", batter around his skull
as the train roars by,
and the boy runs,
flinging his hand toward the
ever-fleeing faces
watching him from the windows creating
blurs of metal and steel
rushing by him
as he wraps his torn,
battered coat around him
clinging to his wool cap
squeezing the plastic handle
of his grandfather's old suitcase held together
with tape that he nearly drops at the
sound of the shrill whistle
echoing on the deserted
Station platform not even
large enough to accommodate a
wayward hobo, or a bench
for him to sleep on so
he shoves himself against
the wood of the little shack
making a spot to spend the
night until the 6 a.m.
to Buffalo arrives,
and he can trade-in the crumpled
ticket for another one-way, no stops
... out of town.