The Wagon
by Walter Weinschenk
The wagon in which I ride
Slows, stops, mired in mud;
The paint fades beneath the rays
Of an apoplectic sun;
The axle breaks, the wheels fall off,
It crumbles to the ground.
Nighttime has descended,
I don’t know where I am
But I remember a ride I took
And I remember getting out:
I stood alone upon a road;
I saw a light and began to walk.
Slows, stops, mired in mud;
The paint fades beneath the rays
Of an apoplectic sun;
The axle breaks, the wheels fall off,
It crumbles to the ground.
Nighttime has descended,
I don’t know where I am
But I remember a ride I took
And I remember getting out:
I stood alone upon a road;
I saw a light and began to walk.
Walter Weinschenk is an attorney, writer and musician. Until a few years ago, he wrote short stories exclusively but now divides his time equally between poetry and prose. Walter's writing has appeared in a number of literary publications including the Carolina Quarterly, Cathexis Northwest Press, Sunspot Literary Journal, The Gateway Review, The Closed Eye Open, The Writing Disorder, Beyond Words, Griffel, The Raw Art Review, and others. His work is due to appear in forthcoming issues of the Iris Literary Journal, Fauxmoir, and Phantom Kangaroo. Walter lives in a suburb just outside Washington, D.C.