by now

i could have walked anywhere
with the number of
steps i've collected
on morning walks alone-- 
i keep each footfall in a velvet
sack like
marbles -- 
learn to shoot them
with the flick of my thumb--
i ramble a railroad 
into the sidewalk
& at night i hear the engines
wail about the 
towns they've never stopped in--
they've listened 
all the names of towns & strip malls
we've wanted to 
pause in & never will-- there are so 
many diners with stools to spin on--
& gumball machines to wind like 
pocket watches--
by now i could have made
it to the grand central taproom
in fleetwood--
sat outside on the wooden bench
& waited for my mother & my father--
the two of them all full of sidewalks 
& their collection of steps
between each other--
my mother cuts crab cakes
with the side of her fork &
my father eats himself through
a bacon-cheeseburger--
they wipe their hands on
their laps & then pretend to use
napkins & they don't notice my
foot steps falling outside
on the pavement like hail--
this is before i was born 
but by now i could have trekked there
in exchange for all these mornings--
i could have meandered my way through
the hole in the backyard 
all the way to china-- brought
my aunt joan back a fish-tail
necklace & hung it on her tombstone--
i could have rambled on the 
backs of my marbles across 
the atlantic to my brother's 
front door in berlin where he pretends
to live the life of a bishop--
takes charge of a dwindling 
parish of stones-- gives homilies 
to the patient moon & i listen for
them when it's dark again--
his voice a beacon of sound like
the moan of the ceaseless railroads--
by now i could have wandered myself
into any of my tomorrows-- 
here's one where i'm still restless 
on a train to new york city again in
another attempt find god at the 
subway station at staton island--
where i saw our lady years ago--
i lugged the ferry on my back & 
saw myself at the railing-- leaning
too much-- always leaning too much--
too close to falling irrevocably into
the bay
yes i could have been there by
now-- on the swivel chairs at the
kutztown tavern where i turned
ten & ate fistfuls of a bar peanuts
& stout pretzels--
by now i could be hail on the sidewalk
in fleetwood or a congregation of stones
or fish tail necklaces pulled from
the mouth of the earth giving way to china 
but, instead,
i have these walks & these legs
who built themselves into railroad tracks--
i keep them all in a sack of marbles to 
trade for produce at the market up
the street from my house-- take my footsteps
for wild heads of ice berg lettuce &
a thick purple carrot thighs--
by now i could have walked sashes 
around the earth but i have been
here-- walking myself into a girl
into a boy into a sidewalk where leaves
stick like band aids in september & 
where the rain dries quickly
in the sun-- this is where i spent my
legs these years-- by now
by now i can call myself a train station--
a stomping ground for passengers to
board & crawl up on my shoulders
to look out at the little town i live
in by only pass through--
i'm still collecting steps & by
now, by now i have such veins 
that the subways are jealous--
i'm shooting my marbles into
the sea from the deck of the ferry &
they hit my brother's front door across
the ocean where he wakes up & finds
his floor covered in marbles &
he knows by now
i have been there too--