The Railroad

The railroad cut through the city like a rusty razorblade. It sliced at the land mercilessly and hacked at the city's weakest points. Against the steel track and past the initial gravel, uneven patches of weeds grew high next to chainlink fences protecting mowed backyards and barking dogs. Or, there would only be a weed here and there mixed with broken green bottles and the rusty red dirt would spread out like a desert of car-part cacti and end at battered warehouses and shattered, dusty windows of the past.

I never found a love in the railroad track or the train that followed. The sound of the train brought back cold autumn nights and rainy sick days - of poverty and lost dreams. That lonesome howl echoed through the quiet, crickety, streets. I was awake during those times laying in bed while it made it's nightly appearance, and felt a surging pain of desolation. I was trapped in this small town, in youth, and the dreams of the neon glitter and laughing faces of the east were taunting in the notes of the whistle.

Something about the dirt, the grime, the rust, and the rotting wood brought back the tarnished faces of the railroad workers: oil mixed with grease creating large pores on silver skin that dug cracks into the earth, into their wrinkles, under dirty black hats and a scorching white sun sky. No one smiled but they knew how to drink and fight.

Once, I knew some kids that decided to play on the train track and all three of them were sliced to pieces on a hot summer afternoon. Once, my brothers young friend went to play on the railroad bridge over muddy storm waters and drowned.Once, we put pennies on the track and later, after the grumble of the train was far enough away, we found them shiny, flat, and hot.