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The Roundhouse

Most Sundays we'd drive west ten miles
to a town with a roundhouse
for steam locomotives.
I was four, and mesmerized
by the steel and brass eighteen wheelers
all smoke and steam
that daily wailed through the valley
hauling coal and freight
and passengers
to stations along the Mohawk
with names like Fonda,
Canajoharie, Fort Plain, Little Falls.

The huge roundhouse stood at the center of the yard,
flanked by a water tower and coaling station.
If you ran your hand
along its rough, cinderblock sides
you'd come away with a layer of soot
so thick it would take
a quarter can of Boraxo to remove,
while in the background
your mother'd be warning you
not to mess up the bathroom
she'd spent the better part of Saturday
on hands and knees scrubbing.

We'd watch as yard men
guided the huge black creatures
heaving and spewing
onto the turntable,
then with a roar and fury of steam
into the darkness
of the roundhouse,
where gray-coveralled men
would wipe them down,
minister to their needs
and where I was sure
they'd be sheltered from night.

O. Winston Link