It's like a locomotive on the march.
- Frank O'Hara
Sometimes in the middle of the night
its whistle awakens me
and for whatever reason I scramble to check my bearings
arm wrestling with an uncooperative compass.
In those moments, the roundhouse looms:
my father in blue workshirt
chatting with the engineer and fireman
faces blackened from the road.
At four, I stood in the cab near the firebox
waiting for the conductor's lantern
sparks flying from the smokestack
steam spewing from heaving pistons.
I've made notes of those memories
which stretch out for miles
scribbling them late at night
after the others have retired
pensioned and peaceful.
But somehow I've misplaced my marble composition tablet
along with other wash-and-wear items
mail-ordered in anticipation.
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| O. Winston Link |