Embedded Files
At first, it was frightening
as the cars swayed from left to right,
a metronome of steel,
but soon, the mechanisms of motion
became the rhythm of my life.
I’ve seen skyscrapers
of rock and cloud,
passed by every rural rail town,
and read the pages
of a thousand passenger faces.
A high school diploma doesn’t get you far,
but a train does.
I brief a passenger car on protocol.
Their bunched blankets and pillows
feel familiar to the felt and plastic chairs.
They open old DVD players,
plugging in plastic headphones
to prepare for the journey ahead.
Families huddle together here; even those
alone find company.
I cross over to the sleeper cars.
A man pokes me with his cane,
instructing me in a pompous tone
to bring him a glass of Claret.
I tell him we don’t allow alcohol,
but, truth is, we can’t afford it.
He’s nostalgic, but maybe one day,
we’ll have a wine list,
when I own the Southwest Chief.
I’d restore diner cars, drape them with finery,
reclining chairs plush with lined velvet.
Every day I make small talk,
learning the lives of the passengers.
They always take their time,
savoring the experience of the train.
Strangers become friends in the lounge,
not hesitating to converse as they
smudge the clear plastic with their elbows
and wear the green vinyl benches
teaching someone Euchre on the table.
This train, is like a spouse;
it cares for me, and I for it.
Neglected by family, friends, and society,
we keep moving
towards something greater than ourselves.
I smoke in the cargo car, listening to
suspension creaks and chassis scratches,
the language of metal.
A breeze rushes through the window,
making the cigarette glow brighter,
and I gaze at the God rays
atop the snow-capped Rockies,
a blanket of diamonds
in the setting sun.
George Kite
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