The Boxcar

The Boxcar

Crossing the train tracks on south Prior Avenue
I saw a boxcar standing not far off
the road, blocking the only line of tracks.
So tall and stark and narrow and alone,
a silent sphinx unasking riddles too many,
it made me want to stop and write a poem--
though I rode on without composing any.
Between the ranks of soldier-elms, I would
have liked to learn, and they wanted to inspire,
I knew my bike a vehicle for poetic turns,
that I would read across the power lines’ wires. But no,
I did not stop, nor did I write a word,
did not, for muses never come to call
when you’d want or expect them to, instead arrive
at times least opportune, under deadlines
for other things,
or do not come at all.