Deep-etched gullies wrinkle the earth,
houses fallen, faded like Ozymandias,
decayed towns the railroad birthed,
trailers lining the hill to the pass,
a white horse drinking at a red riverbed,
appliances choking a deep morass.
The train follows the way of the Joads,
rushing blind through the narrow grave
slashed across empty dirt and gravel roads,
shunning the towns, the people it once gave
faith and fortune to, who every year
gathered, wailing and praying, "Sweet Jesus, save
me, wash me clean. Here is my heart. Here."
They believed in the promise; their fate
was secure and glory was near.
Their empty hands rot and sigh, they could not wait
for wind and dust and the empty depot to overcome death.
This is what the railroad made.

Nicola J. Donaven
Copyright 2001, all rights reserved.