the goodbye train

the dying train bleats a farewell

farewell to the weedy tracks that trail its rusted hulk

farewell to the small town down south

with its crooked cops and bars that stink of old beer

and the bum that wished the dying train would take him anywhere

as it lumbered and chortled past on a hot day in june

it bleats a farewell to the love that was

the love

the love

that glowed so warm when the coals were just right

that held and kept

that stayed, that stayed

the love that would never end

until it did.

goodbye town and goodbye bum.

goodbye love and goodbye home.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

This is very good and captures much about trains and their mystique. It seems you might be describing my small southern hometown where weeds grow over the tracks and the lonesome whistle is no longer heard. No hobo's either.