| Slipping under the edge of the fog |
| and hovering above the |
| green fields of Salinas |
| the sun dips and bobs |
| |
| Bowing to the Queen Anne's Lace |
| the telephone poles |
| fields newly furrowed |
| and my silver train |
| jolting along |
| hiccupping its way to |
| nowhere |
| |
| Rust on the tracks |
| that dead-end |
| |
| factories closed |
| weeds poking through |
| the doors |
| freight cars with |
| graffiti scrawled on |
| their flat Southern Pacific sides |
| |
| Boxcar doors open |
| to the hobos of |
| the dust bowl |
| those wandering |
| men of yesteryear |
| now open to the homeless |
| of today |
| |
| Hopper cars |
| piled high with |
| pea stone |
| looking dusty and useless |
| in black metal coffins |
| |
| The ride is over |
| for these relics of time |
| the lost America |
| where trains reigned |
| and common sense |
| was the norm |
| |
| —Wendy Arnell Brophy |
