Steam Trains

In a wet pavement world
conveyed in beige
I sip railway coffee,
eat my lunch from old tin-foil
amongst the drone
of my daily muse.

For all the rolling stock
and countless Big Diesels,
every now and again
a steam train,
bright red or green
polished brass, loud and brash,
spitting coal, untamed, unpredictable.

For those moments
when their tracks run to my door,
I get to climb aboard
pick up the shovel,
see if the furnace holds.
Of course there is a danger
that these engines burn out,
even explode,
but they are spectacular
and I have to watch,
I have to ask, be involved
and find out their story.

I can only ride the footplate
for a while, until the next station
stepping off into the
muffled crowd of coats,
tepid coffee and paste sandwiches.