The White Train

The White Train


this train’s hot white steel charges west

battering gales slam brute against every revolution

pirates like bookends trap it between its yesterdays and its tomorrows

whipping through dusty cities and broken towns

past wooden women and stoic children


untamed colors circle high above its tracks

smoke clings to the edge of the conductor’s peripheral

as he wipes his brow he knows

the hue of peace is out of reach, a tease at best


the years had taught him that dreams are painful excursions

they are directions that lead into regret

or at best onto a stage surrounded by muted audiences

never the less, the faint smell of possible laughter,

visits his mind with the predictability of an Indian summer


this locomotive knows no stops so knows no rest

scaling over bridges,

pretending not to recognize the exotic perfumes emitting from below

this scent in times before would have lassoed him from a deadline

though now, the caves below his eyes was proof of change


the solo mission of a half tortured half hopeful man

the tortured half silently screaming “Save Me”

the hopeful half begging the tortured half for lenience

the only cargo on board being himself

hauling distance from splintered memories to sharp to lay with

open wounds, salty tears, and one simple promise

a promise he would never share,

on a train that would never stop


By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell /