THAT TRAIN THROUGH OHIO

by John Grey

There's an annoyance
to its whistle,
the grind of its engine.
the rattle of its wheels,
that it has to come through here.
Why can't the coasts be closer
it seems to shriek,
as gray and sleek,
it slips by one more corn field,
one more silo, one more farm-house.
Just from the sound of it,
you can tell
it would prefer the
the tough grade over
the mountains to this.
Better the circling
back onto itself,
ten miles of track
for one mile of progress
than these long prairie stretches
where time and distance
parallel each other
until they drift off into a nothingness
as bleak, as blind, as any night.
This train can't see
you puttering in your garden,
can't feel the blush of your cheek.
It doesn't hear the birds beckon
or the horses whinny
or the ebb and flow of crying winds.
It cannot feel the thighs burn
or the sheets ignite,
or a head get the good news
from a wildly thumping heart.
Instead, the train roars off
toward the sinking sun
in the mistaken belief
that whoever it's not taking somewhere
is left behind nowhere.