Poem of the Week: Congers Iron Rails

BY HARRY WAITZMAN

I discover groves of sunlight
in my white clapboard hamlet.
The pale Victorian homes
look as if they were peeled
from picture postcards

and pasted on tidy lawns.
Garage doors open
and Irish cops and fireman fly
to the Bronx to put down
flames and mayhem.

I’m conned by rust railroad tracks
and imagine they still run forever parallel
past a hundred grade crossings
to Hoboken where saloons are filled
with sawdust, wurst and immigrants.