Futures so far they are ancient
And filled with Egyptian dust,
That smell of the tomb and the lilac,
And seed that is spent from lust,
And peach that is hung on a tree branch
Far out in the sky from one’s reach,
There mummies as lovely as lobsters
Remember old futures and teach.
For a moment he felt his eyes tremble and shut tight, as if to change the lines or make them fade.
Then, as he watched in the darkness, they formed again in the inner twilight of his head, and the words were these:
And children sit by on the stone floor
And draw out their lives in the sands,
Remembering deaths that won’t happen
In futures unseen in far lands.
Somewhere a band is playing
Where the moon never sets in the sky
And nobody sleeps in the summer
And nobody puts down to die;
And Time then just goes on forever
And hearts then continue to beat
To the sound of the old moon-drum drumming
And the glide of Eternity’s feet;
‘Too much,’ he heard himself whisper. ‘Too much. I can’t. Is this the way poems happen? And where does it come from? Is it done?’ he wondered.
And not sure, he put his head back down and closed his eyes and there were these words:
Somewhere the old people wander
And linger themselves into noon
And sleep in the wheat fields yonder
To rise as fresh children with moon.
Somewhere the children, old, maunder
And know what it is to be dead
And turn in their weeping to ponder
Oblivious filed ’neath their bed.
And sit at the long dining table
Where Life makes a banquet of flesh,
Where dis-able makes itself able
And spoiled puts on new masks of fresh.
Somewhere a band is playing
Oh listen, oh listen, that tune!
If you learn it you’ll dance on forever
In June …
And yet June …
And more … June …
And Death will be dumb and not clever
And Death will lie silent forever
In June and June and more June.
The darkness now was complete. The twilight was quiet.
He opened his eyes fully and lay staring at the ceiling in disbelief. He turned in the bed and picked up a picture postcard lying on the nightstand, and stared at the image.
At last he said, half aloud, ‘Am I happy?’
And responded to himself, ‘I am not happy.’
Very slowly he got out of bed, dressed, went downstairs, walked to the train station, bought a ticket and took the first train heading west.
Because.
Well, now, he thought, as he peered down the tracks. This place isn’t on the map. But when the train slowed, I jumped, because …
He turned and saw a wind-battered sign over the flimsy station that seemed about to sink under tides of sand: SUMMERTON, ARIZONA.
‘Yes, sir,’ said a voice.
The traveler dropped his gaze to find a man of some middle years with fair hair and clear eyes seated on the porch of the ramshackle station, leaning back in shadow. An assortment of hats hung above him, which read: TICKET SELLER, BAGGAGE MASTER, SWITCHMAN, NIGHT WATCHMAN, TAXI. Upon his head was a cap with the word STATIONMASTER stitched on its bill in bright red thread.
‘What’ll it be,’ the middle-aged man said, looking at the stranger steadily. ‘A ticket on the next train? Or a taxi two blocks over to the Egyptian View Arms?’
‘God, I don’t know.’ The younger man wiped his brow and blinked in all directions. ‘I just got here. Jumped off. Don’t know why.’
‘Don’t argue with impulse,’ said the stationmaster. ‘With luck you miss the frying pan and hit a nice cool lake on a hot day. So, what’ll it be?’
The older man waited.
‘Taxi, two blocks, to the Egyptian View Arms,’ said the young man, quickly. ‘Yes!’
‘Fine, given the fact that there are no Egyptians to view, nor a Nile Delta. And Cairo, Illinois, is a thousand miles east. But I suppose we’ve got plenty of arms.’
The old man rose, pulled the STATIONMASTER cap from his head, and replaced it with the TAXI cap. He bent to take the small suitcase when the young man said, ‘You’re not just going to leave—?’
‘The station? It’ll mind itself. The tracks aren’t going nowhere, there’s nothing to be purloined within, and it’ll be some few days before another train takes us by surprise. Come on.’ He hoisted the bag and shuffled out of the gloom and around the corner.
Behind the station was no taxi. Instead, a rather handsome large white horse stood, patiently waiting. And behind the horse was a small upright wagon with the words KELLY’S BAKERY, FRESH BREAD, painted on its side.
The
