by Thom Kortkamp
endless trains
plow under
these hills of rusty clay
pulled by a team
of mournful donkeys
the whistle bray
echoes
among black tongue cattle
circling turkey
vultures
tidy the roads,
protect fallow ground
on the track
there is wall…
rock elm & crimson dogwood
crudely
woven together
with inner tubes &
ropes of boiled
fiber
the station is long gone.
no cookies
nor carrots
can please the blinded team
& the steel boxes
with lovely graffiti
won’t slow down
The Writing of John B. Randall 