Boys Throwing Stones at Trains

Shrunk to munchkin maybe
by my height above them,
or the drop below,
they throw stones
and have no greater need
than to hit.

Their thrown stones sweat
out bored enthusiasm
lubricating through the air
an electricity borrowed
from themselves and from the track.

Only the stone is alive
it blinks in three-sixty
and I might see a smile
contrasting grimness
in their trebuchet arm robotic:
folding back and forth
and throwing.

Arms and eyes unfocus
at that SNAP! of the elbow.
Eyes seeing further
than further before, pointlessly__
distance has no point__
hit the train and target;
unloved and unhated.

David McKelvie

If you've any comments on this poem, David McKelvie would be pleased to hear from you.