Freed

I hate that light post. It stares at me as if I'm in some kind of interrogation room. Questioning me, "Where were you this day and that? What were you doing?" And I feel guilty. Guilty for those I may have let down or will let down. . . could let down. It gleams at me from across the way like a freight train and I. . .I'm caught in the headlights. I have to watch out before I get hit. Stuck on the railroad tracks, with fear in my eyes, the rip at the bottom of my jeans won't come free. So finally I come to terms with my death. As the train gets closer and the rumbling of the wheels loosens the track's grip on me. I am freed.