Peach-faced men, brushed with hard labor,
white pails at their feet, hope turning gray,
meet the eyes of the hardscrabble staring
at them, mouths agape, blood filling veins,
skeleton faces, scarred and awaiting death,
looking yonder, the steam whistle quiet now.
There, beneath a baking sun, locomotive hot,
shadows no more than reincarnated ghosts,
the cars start to empty, save the last one,
jammed with more bodies than any other,
the white faces watching, wondering alone,
questioning, have these men come to stay?
Once everyone has grabbed their bags, their freight,
walking through the arched door, across marble tile,
headed to their destinations, remaining here
or passing through, the conductor steps lightly
to the rear, shines a light in despite lunchtime fire,
catches their attention, wriggles a finger at them.
They commence to stand, to tower over those
down the road, down the track, down the dolce vita,
grabbing hats and luggage and oblong boxes,
earning the curious looks again from the witnesses,
the old and young laborers who never knew a train ride,
never knew you could go elsewhere, be someone else.
At first marching in order, in time, they changed
their perspective, their attitude, their sense of being,
once they were caught alighting like children,
their backs stiffening, their hands tightening,
their talk turning from dark humor to dumbstruck,
the lightning flashing, an unfair welcome to the cradle.
