a few miles east,
over the Broadway Extension,
the 3AM train would barrel down.
it was always on time and
unlike the 7AM,
its thick whistle blew the duration
of its passing
and i listened to it every night.
i suppose the engineer,
knew his time was limited
for his responsibilities had been diminishing
with the rise of automation.
and so, sitting in a dark engine,
a lone passenger watching the world smear,
there was probably no sweeter thing
than to crack that hard cable
and stain the night with sound.
a last desperate cry for the ghost trains.
another heavy, steel toast to the failed spirits
of John Henry and Casey Jones.