“The Old Caboose in Autumn” by Robert O. Adair

Past rows of trees
beautiful in autumn,
red, yellow, and orange;
he walked down the lane
under the lowering sky.
As he reached the door
a light drizzle was coming down.
His house was an old caboose
retired from service,
shorn of its wheels.
Inside the tiny kitchen
he brewed a pot of coffee
on top of the old
pot belly stove
taking the chill off
while the rain thundered down
on the wooden roof
pouring over the windows
of the cupola
and a book took him
worlds away.