You hold the postcard near the cracked glass pane
Its edges curled like waves on stormy main
The depot paint peels slow as kelp at tide
No gulls cry here where iron rails abide
Salt on the platform where the trains don't run
No keeper's beam can guide this iron sun
You trim the wick though no ship comes to shore
Just ghosts of steam and letters from before
The stamp is gone the ink bleed brown as rust
A message lost in years of wind and dust
You read the name of someone you once knew
The sea took him the rails took him too
The clock froze noon the year the line went dead
No whistle screams no black smoke paints it red
You sweep the floor with broom made stiff from brine
And keep the timetable like a shrine
Salt on the platform where the trains don't run
No keeper's beam can guide this iron sun
You trim the wick though no ship comes to shore
Just ghosts of steam and letters from before
The tide don't turn here no moon pulls the rail
Just rust and quiet where the boxcars pale
Your logbook lists the storms that never broke
Inland waters words in smoke
Now winter wind slips through the broken door
You've read this card a thousand times or more
The lighthouse gone the lens sold off for scrap
But still you watch the platform for a map
Salt on the platform where the trains don't run
No keeper's beam can guide this iron sun
You trim the wick though no ship comes to shore
Just ghosts of steam and letters from before
The postcard fades to white like sea foam on the stone
You blink the light and walk the tracks alone
