Disappearing Railroad Blues

I never rode the City of New Orleans
or the Orient Express, no train to Marrakesh
or across frozen steppes,

I’ve heard freight trains sigh,
clang, and clatter, just a trace
of Wood Guthrie and hobo blues,
toxic chemicals in the cars now,
braced with hopes and prayers.

I travel on local trains, no baggage,
save a wedge of Gouda from a gourmet store,
I commute with commuters
over a bridge, Philadelphia mirrored in the river,
day-dreaming day-tripper–

but my dad dreamt of sleeper berths,
western mountains, deserts, and ancient peoples. Shapeshifters.
“Such beautiful vistas,” he said.

I hold the card with
his handwriting, a message from the past
braked at a junction of memory,
populated by ghosts. The train rolls on.
It always does.

The image above is a postcard my dad sent from this trip. He mentioned some problem with his eyes, and I can’t remember if he had to end the trip early. I was busy with toddlers and working on a new book.

For dVerse. My poem’s title comes from “City of New Orleans” by Steve Goodman. Arlo Guthrie’s version might be more well-known.