top of page

Ben Groner III

Vision of the Future Aboard an Amtrak Train


Tinted windows sepia-blur jimsonweed and

crisp crabgrass clawing through pavement,


erect propane tanks and corn silos, the silty

gray mouth of the lolling Delaware River,


a low stack of StorageLite units, parked sedans

encroaching on a residential street like plaque


along an artery. Rays sheening a development

of beige houses are unrelenting, though kind. How


can sunlight be childhood, memory, annihilation

all at once? A lone deck of bleachers bare of


spectators next to a high school football field

tenses for the fall season when a boy will refuse


to become his father, will leave the girl alone,

will rip his pads off in the dank locker room


before rushing to the riverbank, inexplicable

and trembling. His grandmother had spoken of


water made murky by sewage and soot, blood

from the upstream slaughterhouse, slick runoff


from Gulf Oil, chemical waste from DuPont.

But the river before him is clear in fractured


moonlight; his teachers tell him striped bass,

brown trout, American shad are returning—


some bony sturgeon even rove its depths.

There was always a chance. There always is.



 

Ben Groner III (Nashville, TN), recipient of a Pushcart Prize nomination and Texas A&M University’s 2014 Gordone Award for undergraduate poetry, has work published in Rust + Moth, Cheat River Review, Whale Road Review, Stirring, Midway Journal, and elsewhere. He’s also a former bookseller at Parnassus Books. You can see more of his work at bengroner.com/creative-writing/

Recent Posts

See All

Miles Cayman

Ø I think your name is less like itself is more like your middle name and most like the way you've held your pencil ever since you practiced cursive, and the ridge of callus precisely on your finger t

Javeria Hasnain

I ONLY CAME TO SEE GOD on the altar. When all the guests had left, & the smell of tuna had wafted far off into the ocean from where it came. No one truly knows. I waited for you, even though I knew yo

Clay Matthews

The First Law of Robotics What kind of malfunction brought you, little daffodil, with the afterbirth of an early February frost; what maker of clocks, what loosed screw; what turned and left the heart

Commentaires


bottom of page