When I bumbled up to the feet of a railroad track.
I knew it was kismet as I have never met it.
I was surrounded on both sides by rice paddies
full of nurses and white nuns–
white pious geese squawking,
“Why do you always run?
Why don’t you stay and join us, hon?”
But I could not hug the track,
there were witnesses, survivors
unaware of the open sores
that only mobile, horizon steel can scour.
So I was made to exit,
and sit on the spectator’s side for about an hour,
and catch the sweeter timbre and meter
of a multi-car, US-Canadian-hybrid sweeper,
a cargo herder, a metal, death punch teaser.
The mechanical solo fleeted,
the nun-squawk repeated,
thus concluding the symphony.
So, I was made to exit,
walk not the walk.
But make no mistake, my Union Pacific friend;
we might more than likely meet again,
and it will be my turn to squawk.