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Crossing the Trestle-In Young America
Railroad ties are the pavement under me
I count each as I go
Below the rusty waters of the Milwaukee River flow
An old ladder hangs over the side
Some passerby has left their graffiti in white
The tracks get closer as my eyes follow them away
I stop to smell the sweet fragrance as it wafts my way
I feel the summer breeze
And imbibe in my eyes the greenery
An old man shouts "Get off of there!"
I pay him no mind
Because the train is never on time, while
I cross the trestle in Young America
Copyright ©
Michael Ramel
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