An old steam locomotive lies in a forgotten field covered with vines. Time is disguising it as it is reclaimed by nature. The wooden box cars have rotted, leaving metal hinges and door handles swinging in the wind, playing a song no one will hear. The passenger car, with its once elaborate seating made of leather, is home to rats who, along with time, took all the beauty away. The club car, once a small gathering place filled with laughter and song with bottles of fine liquor, is now filled with broken pieces of glass, never to pour again. The tables and chairs more food for termites and beatles. The caboose was once where the mail was carried in burlap sacks; some were still tied up, just dust and lost letters never to be read. Decayed Packages ride the rail towards someone eagerly waiting but only disappointed when the tracks remain quiet. How long has it been hidden in the weeds? Something tells me others like me have explored the wreckage and wondered where the skeletons were. Was it a ghost train? Who knows? One thing is sure: I'm out if I visit here at night and see a conductor waving a lantern.
Mike 2024
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