While going through some old papers, I came across another sheaf of poetry I wrote back in the days when I'd sit in Afton Station all day without seeing a single visitor. Loneliness does weird things to the mind, and the wail of a train whistle adds to the weirdness.
A train can't sneak through a town at night.
I've never lived on this side of the tracks
Or that side, for that matter
But the women who do live trackside
Must know that rumble
Better than the night noises of the men
Who lie beside them.
They can tell time
By the first far-away shimmering growl
And know it's like their lives.
The approach, the climax, and then
The disappearance into the night.
Do they understand this?
Or, for them, is it merely the 3:05
Barely worth a notice,
A roll over and a lullaby back to honest sleep?