Where the Railroad Track Meet

Where the Railroad Track Meet Grasping, lunging as does a donkey for the dangling apple leading it forward, I reached for the ever elusive spot. That place where the railroad track meet. Almost had it in Idaho before it slipped over an ever so near horizon. Came close in Nebraska’s corn country as it dipped beneath the tops of the late September corn, again in New Jersey, only to lose sight of it in the low coastal fog. They say they never meet, the railroad track, but I know different. I hear the murmuring of the hobos, old stories told around lukewarm fires by passionless men. Sad retellings of the fateful end of the line - the last ride. Some claim that when the track meet, they create a funnel-like vortex devouring the train and the contents thereof. The more mystically inclined simply believe that there is an end to the line, an ultimate destination, a resting place for hobos and their scant belongings. A hobo hell, no hum of the steel wheels, no clickity-clack of the slow freight train, no shriek of the whistle, no hiss of the steam engines whoosh-chuuu, whoosh-chuuuu, as it strains on the upgrades. Only the fading sound of the bell and the dimming light of the lantern waving from the rear of the caboose as it melts into the spot where the track meet. I have pursued the spot in all directions, North, South, East, West only to realize that it is the track that decide where they will meet and with whom. The track that create the mystery of their meeting and the implications of its meaning. Solitary lifelines of a nation, weary commuter guides, steel ribbons suturing an injured economy, glistening vibratory vagabonds traipsing the terrain of dusty dreams. And yet they still entice us to follow them, to walk on countless ties, to listen to the hum of history, feel the hot wind of an old friend rolling past. There is a music to the rails, a difference to the tone of each passing wheel. Each season has its own repertoire of tunes. Cold steel, hard ground, iced ties teased by friction warmed wheels. Hot, softened, rails emanating scalding heat, compressed into the creaking ties and soft dusty bed, percussion played at sunset in the cooling shiver, the echo of old rails final contractions. I see them through the mist of distance, hear the muffled sounds of purpose, wheels slowly rolling to that spot where the railroad track meet. 1/5/2015 submitted to Railway Journeys – Poetry Contest