the things we do with train tracks

the steam engine, skating
whistles past and through,
over and under on crisp autumn days
its own violin, the tracks are its strings
a cello, viola, its music remains

in sharp october air
for eons, the dry reminders
of futures we've never really had or lost
pasts that grow and squirm in its wake
nows that come, but always a cost

i remember pumpkins
small frogs and Constable's clouds
the endless, abandoned railways
broken down cars from Kerouac dreams
cul-de-sacs where i learned to scrape hands
the grating of metal, the popping of seams

the swelling of seasons, crescendos of sound
the trains are returning, boring me down.