The Night Train
All day long I've been thinking about the night train
and the moonlight on the rails--
the blast of the whistle,
the shriek of the wheels on the tracks,
the heavy ka-chunk of the cars as the engine pulls forward.
Just before mama calls me home,
the train passes the playground,
sunset gleaming on the green caboose.
Dinnertime, blared the 5:40 freighter out of Bristow, on time.
Time to run home, wash my hands,
help mama fill the water glasses and lay the table.
Oh, how I loved the smell of mama's cooking,
fried onions, braised meat,
fresh baked pies and bread.
A hungry played-out child could get drunk on the fumes alone.
Supper's on the table by 6:00.
At 10:30, the express train rockets through the intersection
while the chimes clang and the red lights flash.
Then the bar raises and it's time for a schoolboy to be in bed.
I dream dreams of foreign lands, dark men and women,
gold in their ears, rustle of silk, eyes shining by firelight,
the sound of wild music throbs in the night,
gypsy fiddle, tambourines, flutes and pounding drums.
High above floating on the night wind
I hear the piercing cry of the night train
like the wail of a lonesome heart away from home so long.
Out by the foothills, the coyotes join their ragged chorus of yips
to the rich full whistle of the night train.
I can see her in my mind's eye, gliding on the rails,
with her dazzling searchlight flaring brighter than the moon.
The 3:20 from Great Mesa creaks, moans,
rumbles and groans,
desert dust thick on the black flanks of the oil cars.
In my dream, I am alone now in the dark night,
the shadows alive with the movement of black coiled pythons.
I fly across the moonbeams, my wings, pearl gray against the sky.
Stars, radiant, hide among the clouds while
the slow, last train of the night lumbers,
sleepwalks its way to Toronto,
bearing black beans from Biloxi,
papayas from Florida,
Georgia peanuts and Texas cotton.
All day long I've been thinking about the night train
and the moonlight on the rails--
the blast of the whistle,
the shriek of the wheels on the tracks,
the heavy ka-chunk of the cars as the engine pulls forward.
Just before mama calls me home,
the train passes the playground,
sunset gleaming on the green caboose.
Dinnertime, blared the 5:40 freighter out of Bristow, on time.
Time to run home, wash my hands,
help mama fill the water glasses and lay the table.
Oh, how I loved the smell of mama's cooking,
fried onions, braised meat,
fresh baked pies and bread.
A hungry played-out child could get drunk on the fumes alone.
Supper's on the table by 6:00.
At 10:30, the express train rockets through the intersection
while the chimes clang and the red lights flash.
Then the bar raises and it's time for a schoolboy to be in bed.
I dream dreams of foreign lands, dark men and women,
gold in their ears, rustle of silk, eyes shining by firelight,
the sound of wild music throbs in the night,
gypsy fiddle, tambourines, flutes and pounding drums.
High above floating on the night wind
I hear the piercing cry of the night train
like the wail of a lonesome heart away from home so long.
Out by the foothills, the coyotes join their ragged chorus of yips
to the rich full whistle of the night train.
I can see her in my mind's eye, gliding on the rails,
with her dazzling searchlight flaring brighter than the moon.
The 3:20 from Great Mesa creaks, moans,
rumbles and groans,
desert dust thick on the black flanks of the oil cars.
In my dream, I am alone now in the dark night,
the shadows alive with the movement of black coiled pythons.
I fly across the moonbeams, my wings, pearl gray against the sky.
Stars, radiant, hide among the clouds while
the slow, last train of the night lumbers,
sleepwalks its way to Toronto,
bearing black beans from Biloxi,
papayas from Florida,
Georgia peanuts and Texas cotton.