Train Museum

We never rode them,
delicate machines that first tied round
the world with iron string and set life
speeding to its fever pace;

nor enormous beasts
pulling loads through mountains unwilling
of tunnels blasted and long
where crews came to suffocate;

nor ornate dining cars,
elegant to eat off china unique
to the line, and watch final shapes of a
twilight world pass to night and be
forgotten under strength of electric light;

nor box cars
that bore the dreams of harder men from dust
and famine to the farms of California,
men who never once gave to anger
unless they first embittered the bed
from which it rose.

No,
when we went it was Amtrak 3 am
waiting while the town slept. And Billy
stumbled from his truck when the train came,
having stoned his senses for the ride,
and rode the observation car, red eyes
glazed at the dawning world, and spoke
of how stupid are sheep.
And Amber came on down the line crying
out of her boy friend into my friend
under the conductor’s gentle mockery.
And night again in the dining car,
hard plastic booths, cheap laminate tables.
Bob-with-hair-like-this played cards, gave us tips
on roller derby and told us of when he gave the finger
to the devil (and later, alone,
stumbled tear-eyed down the line of cars).
And long hours in airline seats breathing
air recycled from the dead of night,
wondering when our stop would come, or dawn,
and an unstudied-for test in History
on Monday and wishing I could at least
care about that but only thinking:
Matt has his license,
why didn’t we just drive?