train horns always sound angry except when they sound lonesome
on rainy nights when they’re riding a lonely stretch of track
and they cry out in anguish
in the georgia, indiana, or wherever darkness
and you’re laying in bed under comforting covers
and the sound is hauntingly far away
echoing off sides of mountains, hills
creeping over trestles
meandering across the meanderer
wonder where it’s going//freight or passenger?
carrying cars, coal, lumber, sugar?
or people riding the rails in no hurry comfort
going from point a to point b
via points c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k, and a lot of others
too numerous to name, too forgotten to remember
through little towns where the highlight of the day
is watching the train pass through
past roadside markets, and dilapidated barns
with painted on advertisements falling down
and cows --
cows just staring or paying no attention
innocent animals who like jazz
and boys who have run half a mile when they hear the train coming
standing within a few feet of the rails
catching the glorious aroma of creosote
watching the boxcars, the tankers, and flatbeds parade by in all their glory
boys who someday want to go somewhere
away from the farm and square dances
farmers tans and international harvesters
to the jazz supper clubs and sophistication of big city girls
not knowing how good they’ve got it now
