Night Train redux

 This is the current version

BETCHA BY GOLLY WOW

(for Phyllis Hyman)

What blue wail is this, whose child so alone

St. Clair Village playgrounds fill with her notes

that drift past Sawmill Run til dusk1? And quotes

brick echoes, bounce as rubber balls off stone

walls reflecting deep in Southside streams

or aim to fill a glass with half-poured woes.

Then pulls bipolar boxcars1 in its flow,

her breath now quickly gaining speed and steam.

Phyllis, how your lips could pucker with flair,

and barely brushed my naked neck one night

with little scarves of whistled melody

whittled from June2 rain. What now haints the air

and dares to dip or flutter by3? What kite

straining at its cord, rising to twist free?

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1 last train   her mascara still running

2 June darkness   fireflies and police lights

3  on the shoulder of a pallbearer  a butterfly