It's a quiet Sunday,
on the platform,
a motor hums, then clicks.
Swallows flit about in the electric wires.
Two kids play in the baggage carts.
at the end of the yard
A man steps from a glass office.
holding a long paddle,
He waves it, and blows a whistle.
The engineer sees him,
The train starts to roll,
quiet, the cars hum a little,
a homeless person walks alongside.
One pantographs sputters
and drops to the roof of the engine.
It glides, ever increasing speed.
The electric sulfur smell, burnt eggs . . .
Twenty cars full of people,
disappear into a maze of track.
The café dish clatter becomes loud again.
Signals turn to green.
The starter ambles back to his glass office.
He's just a boy,
wearing a man's uniform.
