Eye of the Rusted Rail

How I miss the seven-thirty-nine,

With its shrill of braking steel

No longer piercing the brittle morning air.

Pigeons ogle from the pinnacle

Of the deserted depot.

Not a soul paces.

Place your ear and hear

Rumblings of eras gone by.

These rusted rails

Listen to cries from Chicago.

Mothers with babes in tow

Waited for the whistle’s blow.

Horse-drawn wagons and

Mares tethered to a post,

Faded with the sun.

Model T’s and ’65 Mustangs

Have driven on down the road.

Spikes and creosote ties,

Million-star skies;

The engine’s beam now sleeps.

Ticket window’s closed,

A last caboose has passed,

One lone light remains on the platform.

And wood benches hold

Specters of unshaven hoboes…resting.

“Tickets please.”