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“Alright everybody, gather around! It’s time for the second monthly railroad poetry night!”
Deacon herded everyone into the main room, towards the couches and tables surrounding Desdemona’s circle table.
“Again?” An agent groaned, but held a paper in her hand tightly, secretly waiting for her turn to share.
“Yes! I’ve been working all week on mine!” Tinker Tom exclaimed and pushed his way to the front.
“I always like listening to his,” Annalee whispered to deacon, sitting next to her.
He chuckled and pulled out his own crumpled piece of paper.
“I hope your ready for the most heart-wrenching, sappy poem yet.”
“Oh really, what’s it called?” She tried looking at his poem but he swiped it away and gave her a bottle of beer instead.
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he smiled, liking the feeling of knowing something she didn’t.
They relaxed on the couch together, listening to Railroad agents poems. Most were about helping synths and better lives, and Tinker Tom’s sounded more like a sermon about aliens in his own zany way.
One agent stood and walked to the front, one Annalee didn’t know that well. He had long dark hair and a crooked nose. His tall posture screamed ex-brotherhood. He cleared his throat and read from the yellowed piece of paper in his hands, which slightly trembled.
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“Dust settles, light filters in
On the sleeping child,
But where are its kin?
He dreams of a world
Beautiful and bright
Golden and red
in that nuclear light.
He dreams of the world
He used to play in,
Where his mind was his
And his heart, undimmed.
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The walls are empty
His teddy bear cries,
The home of his family
Empty inside-
The windows are boarded,
The door is chained shut,
His skin scarred and wrinkled
His sanity cut.
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For how could this child
Know from the start
That the changes within
Could destroy his heart
And destroy his home
And destroy his family
For it was he who ate them-
Consumed them in apathy
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Does he know
That he used to be loved
And can he dream
Of his family beloved
Or is all that he dreams
Just his visions of dust
And gold light filtered in
From his cracked ceiling above.”
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Deacon looked over at Annalee as they all clapped, and she hastily wiped tears from her eyes.
“Hey, Anna’, what’s wrong?”
“I’m just- thinking of Shaun,” she sniffles and dropped the bottle to the ground as she cried.
“Hey, hey there,” he reached over to rub her shoulder but stopped, not knowing how to comfort her.
Why did he pause? They were supposed to be partners after all...
He gently rested his hand on her back and moved it around, and she slowly calmed down.
“Thanks Deacon,” she wiped her nose and leaned back again, her cheeks red from embarrassment of breaking down in the middle of poetry night.
“It’s ok, here you can listen to my poem next!” He jumped up and walked to the front, clearing his throat and coughing unnecessarily.
“I thought it was supposed to be really sad, how is that going to cheer me up?” She pouted, but he waved her concern away.
“This is called... I Dropped My Sugar Babies...”
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