|
| |
Hopping a Freight Train in Wheeling
The freight train puffs a veil of smoke into the night.
The iron rails rumble.
Be still.
Now.
There it is, the engine's call, fading
To the distance.
Between shadows, a lean figure grips tight to the rolling steel,
His pack worn low on his back, and now he's gone
Wholly, into the night.
I stand alone by the coal yard, I do not dare speak
Or move.
I listen.
The train bends away into its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
Copyright ©
Don Iannone
|
|