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.