Called onto the scene

By the brass, shrill blast of the steam whistle

Moving so trepidatiously

One would think he had all the time in the world

But as he glances worriedly at the quickly pocketed gilded watch

His shaking, quivering hands

Betray the closely counted ticking of his timepiece

He straightens his jacket

Nodding practicedly to the staring conductor

To board the scarlet-carpeted locomotive

The other man's pained, reflective, inward gaze

Confirms the evening's suspicion-

This is the last ride

Of old Terence McPhilips