a neglected stroller

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a neglected stroller

Broadside along the bridge on Broad, it gazes 
on abandoned train rails running beneath
while up above red Buicks carry ladies
deep in conference calls and lukewarm tea.
I cut my dashboard radio, hoping to hold
the cradle's silence, but by that time it’s passed
into my rearview and the garret of my soul 
that ponders things like baby carriages 
left rotting beside the road. 
                                           It will not tell 
its secrets, as shuttered as Miranda’s Books 
across the yellow lines. It needn’t tell—
it’s told enough by being there, looking
out over the steel railing, perpendicular 
to Broad Street’s concrete veins. Its presence claims, 
questions:
                How can an abandoned stroller 
run parallel to anything? 

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