Metal Kings

Train tracks here run so long
lose them in sight
they shimmer
vaporized like a
mirage in sunlight; rust together
and twist into sinew, muscles flex every time
a train rumbles past

Speaking a cluttered tongue of
click clack and squeak, the wheels
thirst for oil;
gravel thirsts for green;
weeds push up between the ties only
to bow their heads
when the next king of the tracks roars

While deep underneath,
deep under the rumble
and thunder
of speed fleet on its electric metal wings,
the bridges weather
years of weight;
concrete wrinkles and cracks, shows its age;
paint peels like sunburnt skin

But this kind of
bone doesn’t heal by itself
metal and cement don’t renew like sun with
the turn of the seasons
and if neglect or disaster stops these
thundering kings in their tracks
weeds will raise
spiky rebel heads and
reclaim what was theirs
before steel raked long finger-nail lines across
this land’s skin