Some years ago, Ford Motor company stopped shipping new cars destined for New England by railroad. There was a huge train yard across the Merrimac River, just over the Lowell city line in Billerica, Mass. (home of Future Hall of Famer, Tom Glavine. One night, unable to sleep, I heard the sound of a single switching locomotive, moving box cars around and forming up trains of empty car carriers. I could hear the sharp bang every time the engineer would add a car to the tree. All the windows in my house were open on a warm spring night.
My dad was a Boston & Maine employee who worked around the yards, doing maintenence. He spoke to me once of how he would occasionally get lonely and a bit melancholy being out there at night. He explained how he would miss his wife and two small sons, but he knew he needed to be out there making money.
I remembered that conversation some 30 years later and I tried to imagine the loneliness felt by the men who work away from their families, often alone and isolated.
Open Windows in the Spring
May 15, '00
3:37 am
sleep - my eye
The
lonesome cold
sound of
a switcher
banging empty
boxcars
in the dead
of night-
oh sight
in the distance
folded back
is
my father walking
home with midnite
empty
lunch bucket.
-cold swept
iron tracks
leading
away
one
way.
my eye
empty now.
...............................................................................
The poem is not universal enough.
No one else can see my dad.
Since my dad died young, my seeing
him disappearing down the tracks, uncommunicative;
I've made him up; but haven't
felt his pain or explained his loneliness.
I got no further than conjuring up a vision
of him that is sterile. No dirt, sweat or grime.
No slack muscles. No exhaustion. He's a ghost;
and the poem is not that interesting.