My wife gave me a one way Greyhound ticket to Vegas.
She threw in $37.58 in loose change.
Told me she wanted me out of her life.
I didn’t believe it though.
Deep down, I think she just wanted to set me free.
Let me out of the ball and chain thing that
I have never been good at.
I’m grateful and there’s a whole country
of freight trains with my name on them.
Or they will once I tag them
with my nom de plum: Tuck.
They called me that cause I’m good at hiding.
I’m not bad at lying either.
Had the DTs in Cheyenne.
Jumped an empty boxcar north.
Hid under abridge pillar next to the Air Force base.
Sat my backpack down in the corner.
My vodka fell out when I made the jump.
Once I made Greybull I was in terrible shape.
2 men tried to kill me and take my gear.
Only they weren’t real.
The rail yard police pinched me for trespassing
and I told them I was attacked.
They asked me how much I’d been drinking.
Wound up in a local hospital
where I got a valium injection and
and a shot of Haldal in my left ass cheek.
Never had it that bad before.
Red ball, line of freight cars
big as a football field.
Standing on the platform,
smoking a cheap cigar.
Thinking about the next stop,
forgetting all the last stops.
No home to settle down,
No savings to fall back on.
There’s no 401Ks for drifters.
History doesn’t care for those who ride the Cadillac grainer.
It was cold in the freight yard.
Wished for nothing but long johns,
Now, they would have saved him.
His pants felt like they were made of paper.
Had two shots of rye left.
Needed one to warm up, but that didn’t last more than five minutes.
The chill got inside his bones.