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Life Through a Transom
From the transom above my grandparents’ door,
the city stretched like a secret,
half-glimpsed, half-dreamed,
a mosaic of rooftops and smokestacks,
where stories rose and vanished
in the smog-filled air.
I watched it from a distance,
my childhood framed in glass,
the world a silent play
performed on dusty streets.
Every afternoon, I climbed the stairs,
stood on tiptoe to peer through the pane,
my eyes tracing the lines of buildings
that seemed to touch the sky,
each window a portal to lives
I could never enter,
each alley a whisper
of adventures just out of reach.
The city sang a muffled symphony,
horns and shouts a muted hum
beneath my grandparents’ gentle voices,
their stories blending with the distant din,
an undercurrent of life
I could never quite hold.
I saw children playing in the park,
their laughter a faint ripple
across my glass-bound view,
their games a choreography
of innocence and escape.
I imagined myself among them,
running through the maze of streets,
feeling the pulse of the city beneath my feet,
but always, I remained
behind the transom, a spectator
to a world that moved on without me,
each day a reflection
of what I could not touch.
The city was both near and far,
a heartbeat away and a lifetime apart,
its secrets tantalizingly close,
yet always slipping through my grasp.
I grew older, my visits less frequent,
the view through the transom unchanged,
yet somehow different,
a reminder of dreams
that faded with time.
Now, I see the city in my mind,
a distant memory etched in glass,
its streets a labyrinth of longing,
its lights a constellation of loss.
The transom remains, a silent witness
to my yearning, my small rebellion
against the confines of home.
I wonder if the city remembers
the boy who watched from above,
if it holds his dreams in its concrete heart,
or if they are scattered, like leaves in the wind,
carried away by the currents of time,
lost in the endless rhythm of life.
King of the Trestle
He reigned over the trestle,
a monarch of forgotten dreams,
his kingdom stretching beneath the steel arches
where trains thundered above,
their rumble a lullaby
to the man who made the rails his throne.
Every morning, I walked to school,
passing his domain with a mixture
of curiosity and fear,
wondering about the stories etched
in the lines of his weathered face,
each wrinkle a sign
to battles fought and lost.
His eyes, clear and piercing,
held a depth that spoke of places
far beyond the bridge,
yet he chose this spot,
this concrete refuge
from a world that turned its back.
I never knew his name,
but to me, he was royalty,
a king without a crown,
whose court was the pigeons
that fluttered and cooed
like restless courtiers.
Some days, I’d see him muttering
to the ghosts of his past,
his hands gesturing to the air
as if shaping the memories
that kept him company
when the nights grew long
and the cold seeped in.
I wondered what brought him here,
what dreams derailed on the tracks
that led him to this place.
Did he once have a family,
a home filled with laughter?
Or was the trestle always his destiny,
a final stop on the journey
through a life less kind?
I never spoke to him,
fearful of crossing the invisible line
between our worlds,
but his presence left an imprint
on my young mind,
a lesson in the fragility
of human existence,
the thin veil that separates
those who have from those who don’t.
Years passed, and I left the neighborhood,
the trestle a distant memory,
its king a shadow in my thoughts.
I often wonder if he’s still there,
if the trains still sing him to sleep,
if the pigeons still gather
to hear his silent proclamations.
Sometimes, in the quiet of the night,
I imagine him sitting on his makeshift throne,
looking out over his kingdom
with a dignity that defies his plight,
a king of the trestle,
lost in the symphony of the rails,
his legacy etched in the rhythm
of wheels on steel,
a life lived on the edge,
a story untold yet profoundly known.
Milk Bottles
Grandmother’s stories poured like milk
from bottles left on doorsteps,
each tale a glass of yesterday,
frosted with the mist of memory.
I listened, enthralled by the clink
of the delivery man’s cart,
the early morning ritual
of fresh starts on silent streets.
She spoke of mornings when the city
still slumbered, when fog clung
to the corners of buildings
and the world felt softer,
as if wrapped in wool.
The bottles stood like sentinels,
gleaming in the first light,
promising nourishment
in their fragile embrace.
I imagined the sound,
the gentle thud of glass against wood,
a symphony of routine and care,
each bottle a message
from a simpler time,
a time when life was measured
by the rhythm of deliveries,
the certainty of small gestures.
Uncle Jim’s voice added a different hue,
recollections tinged with the scent of coal
and the hum of streetcars,
each memory a brushstroke
on the canvas of our family lore.
He spoke of neighbors chatting
over fences, of the milkman’s smile,
a fleeting moment of connection
in a city that never stood still.
I longed for that world,
the tangible comfort of glass and cream,
the predictable cadence of daily life,
unbroken by the chaos
that seemed to seep
into every crack of the present.
The stories were my refuge,
a window to a past
where people knew each other’s names
and the milk always arrived on time.
The tales have since faded,
their edges blurred by the march of years,
but the image of those bottles remained,
a symbol of something I could never grasp,
a time I could never touch.
I find myself yearning for that simplicity,
for the solidity of glass
and the certainty it contained,
even as I navigate a world
where everything feels transient,
where nothing seems to last.
Now, I hold these stories
like those old milk bottles,
delicate and clear,
filled with a substance
that nourishes my soul,
yet always just out of reach.
I wonder if the past ever truly leaves us,
if we are all custodians of memories
delivered from house to house,
each story a bottle waiting
to be opened, to be savored,
to remind us of the ties
that bind us to a time
when life seemed simpler,
and the milkman’s visit
was the highlight of the day.
Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. His poetry, short stories, and essays have been published in many journals, magazines, and websites. He has been writing for more than 30 years.
THE CITY KEY 