On Rails.



The clattering behemoth roared as it clawed a path along the earth-stained metal lane. The noise reached my ears but was just beyond my field of vision. What a thing, I wondered, to be in this world with your path already set and only an ancient furnace to guide you.

I hear your passage as you churn along. Your strength rattles us ever so slightly and with good manners we pretend not to notice.

I wonder about you; your rusted pieces of self. Constantly stopping, attaching, discarding. I imagine an army of boxcars, empty and spray-painted with the names of hopeful street gangs; all of them abandoned but still in sight of the weak wooden rail that descends to block the motor traffic. I hear the boxcars chuckle every time a horseless carriage approaches and hesitates before the railroad crossing as if in silent reverence, in tribute to the ancient boundaries.

The rusted iron tracks are a herald. They still proclaim to all driving in their cars and walking with their feet: "Don't be here when I am. Don't you dare be here when I am."