This old track-
1898-
yet the switches
still throw
with borrowed effort
as they always did.
I remember the drop,
the kick,
the hand brakes
and the pop of pistons
rolling down the hill.
I rode the handrails
and pulled the pins
while we were moving
and stopping
those 16 ton bitches
that could crush a man whole.
I saw the commentary of a nation
in spray painted art
rolling to new destinations
carrying messages of hate and love
to the small towns and big cities.
A brakemans' life is short
and the rails soon forget
the dead, dying and mamed.
It just rolls on and on
as it always did.
A mans' hard work and effort
on the midnight shoves,
on the bloody lead,
on the drop,
on the pull
and on the deadly ride
is not spoke of for a moment
in the belly of an engine
speeding south.
It is only us who remember.
The dying, the dead and the
mamed like me.
Armless and seeking work.
What did you think
Comments
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Superb Plus +
I do not think it needs revision. You spoke with elegance about men in hazardous jobs who probably got paid a lot less than what the job was really worth. You have excellent imagery in this write for I could picture the man at work. Thanks for sharing. -
wow.
this is... beautiful.
I rode a train to and from Boston from a suburb about an hour away
Just to get to school every day
With my mom, from four months old to sixth grade.
We'd have to stop when we lost power, stop when our train, our big hulking death machine had squashed someone like a bug.
It helped my mother and I escape the fear of a 9/11 attack on Boston the day it happened in New York. She took me out of school: I was in third grade.
This poem brought back memories I had long forgotten: I am now in eleventh grade.
I love the images of"on the drop
on the pullon the deadly ride"
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Nice work.
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