Jenny Hears the Train The thrum of the diesel in the distance and the sound of wheels on rails, steel to steel, makes me want to go, to get out of town, to leave the life I have and try for something new. I hear the train while I am fixing breakfast, its sound coming over the houses and in my open window, pitch rising as it picks up speed, and I imagine myself lifting off, like a bird you know, and following it. It would be a long fat worm from my vantage. Sometimes, dreaming like that, I let the eggs go from over easy to solid through and the biscuits go brown and dry and hard and then I hear the sounds of complaint, dissatisfaction-- not words usually but descending sighs and maybe groans like a train approaching, slowing. That's pretty much all I get, sorry silent disapproval whenever he's here. Of course, it could be way worse, he could be a hitter like my own daddy was, and I'll take this cold hell to the hot hell my mama lived. I guess til I grow wings I'll have to live this life I chose when I was 16 and afraid I'd have no life. Cecil Morris Cecil Morris retired after 37 years of teaching high school English in California. Now he tries writing himself what he spent so many years teaching others to understand and enjoy. In his newly abundant spare time, he has been reading Sharon Olds, Tony Hoagland, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Morgan Parker. He has had a handful of poems published in English Journal, The 2River Review, Poem, Dime Show Review, The American Scholar, and other literary magazines.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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May 2025
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