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Rated: E · Poetry · Transportation · #2247989
For Writer's Cramp & my son Jonah, who loves watching trains
It's the way they
the way they
and start
and shine the
way they move and
churn and groan the
way they steam and smoke
they grind and slide they take on tracks
and pick up pick up pick up speed and
sun reflects on silver cars on circling wheels
around the bend across the field away away away
from me graffiti painted years ago still readable still fresh
on broad sides box cars wide and smiling sliding doors on station signs
and top speed flashing go go go a blurry hurried rushing running roughshod race
a thousand cars a rapid count a last caboose a sudden silent


and then the way
they leave
they shrink from sight
away from here
and then
the way
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