Behind the hills in Pittsburgh there are trains
hidden on forgotten tracks.
I can’t recall the roar
of their polished wheels on rusted rails;
and my memory of their sight belongs
to Midwest plains: long arcs
curving across a yellow field to the horizon.
But their long sobs linger in the valleys;
I hear a clouded Pittsburgh afternoon
with the trumpet call of every engine
which mourns with me
and invites me home.
hidden on forgotten tracks.
I can’t recall the roar
of their polished wheels on rusted rails;
and my memory of their sight belongs
to Midwest plains: long arcs
curving across a yellow field to the horizon.
But their long sobs linger in the valleys;
I hear a clouded Pittsburgh afternoon
with the trumpet call of every engine
which mourns with me
and invites me home.
December 2019
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