Sour Times

I wonder how the statue fares
in this cold, on the river bank,
my indelible memory that gazes
ever onward to a distant east.

I wonder if he is lonely still, like me,
lost as cars pass for the bridge.
Have the visitors been from afar,
to meet, and check each other’s papers, and stamps?

It seems unlikely now those days
have gone, like the yellow trains,
rumbling above as eyes look forward
to the oncoming change.

Perhaps only I remember that wind,
bitter cold, shared with bronze form.
Perhaps the rest have run past,
beneath deep red arch and rails.

sour-times

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