You don't have to touch someone to touch someone....
The Fitchburg Railroad
I know this train is going fast
Just by the way the leaves snap up
In the diesel-smoky wind.
We pass one train, black as a pipe,
Full of corn syrup, going to Littleton’s cider mill.
The topless corrugated metal cars
Show they’re loaded with apples:
The crowded fruit gleams like ruddy cobblestones.
I can see through one empty Boston and Maine car,
Its sliding doors are left open. A hobo peeks
Out through another decade. Or it’s Walt again,
Singing about my fierce-throated beauty,
The lawless music of the locomotive’s whistle,
Which reminded Thoreau of a hawk’s scream,
And he’s right, that’s just what it sounds like:
That celebratory call it makes for the pissed-off
Squirrel pinched in his talons. The red
Lollipop lights ahead flash in panic,
A truck stalls at the crossing,
And we don’t even slow down.