Walking the Ties
Walking the Ties
A short-cut to town
and I take it, stretch my legs
across cinders to reach
the next creosote-darkened timber,
the next gray-splintered beam.
Alert for the rumble and shake,
I walk the ties, goldenrod
and field daisies in my hands
know it will be hours
before the two o'clock freight
heading west, hours before
the whistle-warning
Get off the tracks!
From the road
I wave to the engineer
who almost always
waves back from his high cab
as if he knows
I want to be on board
wherever this train is going.
