Proposition

 

 

There was a pungent not quite socially acceptable smell in the air

under the darkness of the end of the work week.

Down the  corridor of the cul-de-sac

thick green smoke swirled.

 

Animated turns,

into the windowsill.

Under the shade of  a wrinkling summer umbrella

The locomotive

as useless as a caboose

slowly exhaled.

 

Peering at the neighbor for judgmental reactions.

 

The train wreck

behind bright lighted out windows

yelled out with scorn

your wind is coming my way.