Billie McCorkle

Indian Summer ushered in October.Bags packed, I boardedthe iron horse.I left behind all that remainedof the static town.I’m a dying bird, flyingwith a broken wing.

The laughter of school children bounced offthe bitter air. Snot icicles formed and hungfrom Mary’s Rudolph nose while snowfairyflakestickled her tongue. Jingles caroled intothe scratchy loudspeaker. And as Mary twirled, her blades shaved the glassy ice.And women in their fancy garb, matchingmufflers and scarves, looked on from the rail.Mister Rockefeller’s tree, adorned withrainbow lights, sparkled … Read more