I heard

by Margo Davis

quiet, nothing but,
as snow blanketed the lawns,
the streets,
even the railroad ties

that glinted and winked like
gold teeth beneath off-white slush
as our lumbering beige car
eased over the tracks.

I would lie awake, hearing
nothing, not even a passing flatbed,
until the 10:45 would
shimmy as it blew through.

At 10:50 our neighbor
would cast a shadow down his stairs
as if in a silent film
then coast his old wreck downhill

until it coughed into being
at bottom, turning left beyond the rails,
and arriving on time,
it would seem,

for his 11 o’clock shift
at The Red White and Brew.
I heard if you fed quarters to the jukebox
it would play on into first light.

Some drank there,
I suppose, to blast out thought,
simply be. Perhaps a pounding rhythm
served as prelude or

soundtrack for something you made
happen. Or happened to you.
If I had been drinking age
I would have trudged back home

through the mute snow
simply to process all I had heard.
Back then, I had thought
I’d seen everything.

When not adventure traveling, Margo Davis resides in Houston. Her more recent poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Snapdragon, Mockingheart Review, Cordella, Houston Chronicle, Ocotillo Review, Persimmon Tree and several anthologies, most recently Odes and Elegies: Eco-poetry from the Texas Gulf Coast. Nominated three times for a Pushcart, Davis is originally from New Orleans, where she obtained her MFA. This poem will appear in her forthcoming chapbook, Quicksilver, with Finishing Line Press.

Mighty Mimosas
The House Across the