rust spikes in a tossed bucket


I peer through the high wide grasses

toward the ancient worn red paint

railroad ex depot

its siding dilapidated now and a

nest of bees is surging at one corner

otherwise the natural winds of the grassíll give a thin hiss

a little like Wyethís Christinaís World

except Iím looking for the smoky smudged sound of a

century ago

its cap of black dirt coal smoke

marching through the veins left in the cleft grass

and it stops like a runner running out of steam

clumps up on its big blocks to

the serenity of the station

someone, letís call him Mr. Arbogast,

fusses with his pocket watch being ornery again

the nestled grain smells

globular clouds fat as a fat rich man in a Turkish bath

something some of the local ladies were always waiting for

someone to hand them something for once

and not have to wash themselves, someone would do it, they

married or just concubined to a railroad industry baron

the engine is cooling somewhat, under the bath of

the water tower down hose

itís nearly up to steam the

conductor or brakemen yells at the expanse of track ahead

we step aside for the great monster

already forgotten us and our left behind spit on a map

on its fine way to the great cities

Sandburg would mold into steel