Stationary

Gerald the Writer

Waiting at the station,

the platform held me at attention.

The iron lines lie parallel

and secure with rusty spikes.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

Twin rails, identical, dependent

like a yoke to carry a burden.

Similar tracks would guide

into Auschwitz–Birkenau.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

I stood, head down, hands behind

my back without cuffs.

Thoughts of freedom ring

like scraping of iron on iron.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

There were stations of crossover.

Humans standing, gazing

on the Via Delarosa,

their eyes like two rails.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

It is a Good Friday to stand in a nave.

To look on the One who bore

the railroad ties in juxtaposition.

The oxidized nails set.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

Stationary, I am to remember…

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