Train

Train

I am confined to the cold
rusting steel and splintered
wooden slats. Only moving from
point: a. to
point: b.
There is no freedom, never was.

I was created to be obsolete.
They made me to work and
then made the little metal play things.
Rouge breasted coupes with
belts for stopping the passengers.
Little metal play things to turn at
stop lights or stop
. On a dime
when I cause the salt and peppered striped
dividers to fall like the sides of their
drivers lips, and the skin in between their brows
falls too, and sweats like my steam, theirs
in anger, mine in exhaustion.

Am I really that awful?
That my back breaking freight
isn’t enough for the precious
minutes ticking away like tellers’
fingers counting stacks of money:
chugging along, regular, like me.

Sometimes, the coal black that my
back holds is not equal to the red of my
engine coal they throw in me with
no mercy. My heart it burns glowing orange
and red haze, for as long as they
deem I must move.
My spinal columns connected by
little iron loop bones connecting car to car,
the weight pulls the cool metal taut for as long as
they deem I hold it.

Their favorite fuel
is my burden and I have no choice to
place it on my shoulders, armless to steady.

Surely those beings who made me can see
that sometimes Atlas needs encouragement
and would love a break from his eternal weight.
I wish, I were Atlas. At last then, the
weight I hold would be for everything,
and not for the slanted angry eyes
who’s blues and browns never
sparkle in their disgust at their wait,
in their shoveling for my heart,
in their contempt for my obsolescence.

Alas, though, I am no Atlas.
I just bear my freight and plug
along. No one knows that each
whistle’s a wail of hope
to get off these tracks. And the steam
the closest to tears that my life
will ne’er see that day.