point

Stretched the resilience
of the Tomlinson coupler,
the trucks eased
through the tight curve.
The chains of
the Bologna springs
jabbered their steel slang,
whistled the air
from the tunnel.
I read the paper
when the train
transferred to the other
track on the crossover.
From there
it struck daylight,

transcended on the raised
railroad elevated
above the street.
The next stop
announced,
with a name
in the ol' buttermilk sky.