They came by train, the white highball,
With assurance, they made the grade,
Otherwise, they are not paid,
All cars running smooth for the haul.
The cars move with a clickety clack,
In distance is the welcome depot,
On time is our plan and credo,
We’ll make it there, then come back.
A lonely whistle, full stream ahead,
Our speed is steady on the line,
All lights are green, none are red.
We’ll make the run with this high sign,
At evening time, we can break bread,
Only air-flight can our journey refine.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.