Boundary Condition

From the platform, iron iterates way into time. The tracks are staples intervaled along my father’s spine. Before me might be somebody’s father, waited for — white choker of a condor, dry lips of lifelong acolyte. I barely brush his arm, so as not to make him start. Who knows how he might play out: cave in, tear apart? He deeds toward me, wet wood breakable. All in all of direst bark. This is how it starts, at last, I recall. “I thought you were someone, otherwise.” The rail lines rattle like beetle files. He frowns. Establishes his palms. “Tell me. Does that happen often, lamb?”