Trespassing

Often, he walked out
on his breaks from work
Towards those iron tracks
long dormant now
He'd step over each one
slowly, calculated
Then lightly duck under
the torn chain-link fence
After that, trespassing,
gravel would grind
against the concrete
beneath his feet
He knew that sound
Anticipated it every time
Friction, footsteps
The meadow was next
No more than weeds, really
Thistles, licorice, dandelions,
all leaning with the grass
Always one hand down
at his side, fingers outstretched,
grazing against the meadow
The thistles stinging
but not enough to deter
There was some concrete too,
piled at a pleasant angle
A broken foundation
He liked to sit there,
the sun at his back,
and bask as the lizards do
Something about that warmth
thawed the day's anxiety
The depot wasn't far
now crumbling and wholly ignored,
but still handsome
with those old, worn bricks
Sometimes, that routine
was the highest point
of his weekday
He was rather content
with that notion