When I was a child,
Under a bush by the church,
A squirrel died, and laid there.
And every week I went to visit,
And see what the news was.
And he revealed in time,
Everything about himself,
Like a close friend.
Slowly, he was lost,
Piece by piece,
Like an old jigsaw puzzle,
And was never heard from again.
The train was traveling at a furious pace
Which is a wonderful time to have one’s face
Out the window.
And just when one begins to be bored
In the distance ahead is spied
An oncoming train.
There is plenty of time, it’s far away still
And I pull my head past the window sill
Away from the blast rushing past.
I have heard there is room enough between passing trains,
But at the moment I doubt many, many things.
