Chasing Down

I hopped a train to get to you.
Problem is, I don’t know who
you are. Maybe you’re some
midnight malady. Maybe you’re
a daybreak too late. But then
again, maybe I’m too late.

Enough of that talk. Silence now.
All I need is this sweet winter
silence. I collected a barrell full
of railroad spikes. I’ll trade it for
a a pint of whiskey, some food,
a few dollars and a leather-bound
book. For to write it all down.

There I go whistling by. Like some
misplaced memory. You’re always on
my mind. Like the time. I hope you’ve
kept all your collections. I want to wade
through them. I want to find the barn
and sift through mountains of dust.
I want to know every inch of you.

I am like a snow-swept pine
and you are the coal that keeps
this train running. I provide the
oxygen and you the fire.

This train isn’t going fast enough.
Not fast enough to catch you.
I yell as loud as I can to hurry up,
but no one hears me. The drone of the
locomotive billows and my words are
nothing more than whispers.

Then the train stops.
And I’m in some unknown town with
a barrel of iron and rust, praying.
You are always one town away.