the horns blare
loud enough to hear
if you've sat quietly
long enough.
The CSX.
The CSX.
The coal train express.
See excess.
The CSX.
The CSX.
When it didn't matter whose car keys you left
at the fishing hole in the ignition
to make a joke seeing the CSX
on its way to demolition and
fireworks or laughter at keys and fleet feet
while 9 foot poles glimmered
with a bite.
Sometimes
sitting quietly enough. The horn blares
and carries through the valleys
of Pittsburgh,
echoes through the trees,
and rolls across a pillow,
to the ears.
All of the graffiti
traffic jams,
catfish and mud and grease gloves,
undrinkable fresh water,
shores of nails and glass and warm sand,
tunnels and bridges.
The quietly blaring horn
through the depths of Summer's coffin,
the songs of Autumnal pallbearers:
Can you hear?
You are already home.
