Rattle blurs past; graffiti two feet high
in neon green and orange, a cock
exploding. I'm Biloxi bound,
I'm a bored teen tossing my brother's shoes
skyward. I'm in your car snaking my hand
up your sundress to rest on your inner thigh.
The Buick behind me has someplace to go.
I take one last look at the train disappearing
and think of the engineer as he flicks
an ash and watches the same towns pass.
He thinks about lunch, a nip at the flask
that makes the day fade like a whistle.
I’m the boy kicking dirt by the side
of the tracks, train forgotten, looking up
at sneakers that sway the line.