once a week i make the drive two hours east to check the austin post office box and i make the detour through our old neighborhood see all the chevy impalas in their front yards up on blocks and i park in an alley and i read through the postcards you continue to send where as indirectly as you can you ask what i remember i like these torture devices from my old best friend well i ll tell you what i know like i swore i always would i don t think it s gonna do you any good i remember the train headed south out of bangkok down toward the water i always get a late start when the sun s going down and the traffic s thinning out and the glare is hard to take i wish the west texas highway was a mbius strip i could ride it out forever when i feel my heart break i almost swear i hear it happen it s that clear and that hard i come in off the highway and i park in my front yard fall out of the car like a hostage from a plane think of you a while start wishing it would rain  i remember the train headed south out of bangkok down toward the water i come into the house put on a pot of coffee walk the floors a little while i set your postcard on the table with all the others like it i start sorting through the pile i check the pictures and the postmarks and the captions and the stamps for signs of any pattern at all when i come up empty handed the feeling almost overwhelms me i let a few of my defenses fall and i smile a bitter smile it s not a pretty thing to see i think about a railroad platform back in 1983 i remember the train headed south out of bangkok down toward the water