THE ENDLESS TRAIN

The endless train, or memory of a train,
thunders by, hauling a century’s freight
through weeds, rust and the sunk warehouses
on the punched-out side of town. The engineer
lifts his hand in the gloved condescension
that power once bestowed with fatherly grace,
and I—nothing else to do—recite
box cars: Illinois Central, Wabash,
Santa Fe, Great Northern, Sioux
as the dusk thickens at the crossing. Then,
it’s passed, except for three long-suffering moans
to sound the lonesomeness between one station
and the next. And now, too late, I remember
how it feels to have a destination.