11/16

That midnight train is winding low.

And in that train rides the last dying gasps of desperation.  There is no conductor, no engineer, no staff.  Just a ship of fools crossing the desert on gleaming rails in the moonlight. 

 Some nights, all you have is a fast two mile run, a glass of cheap bourbon and Hank Williams. 

 That and memories of train rides through the cretaceous heart of Colorado.  But don’t admit that.  Lord knows you can never admit to all those memories, or how you would give away every ounce of freedom to have them back, that would be “disrespecting” some pointless space you did not ask for.  Those memories were beautiful and poignant, and now dead and gone. 

And you miss Her, and her family, and her dogs. 

Things are really not as bad as they sound.  I have some beef ribs searing over a cedar fire and a job in the morning.  The ribs have been slow cooking in the smoke for more than an hour with brown sugar melting with the fat into candy.  I have ice cubes in my glass and the last golden caramel beauty of the universe hanging on for dear existence, smelling of oak and cinnamon.  A poor trade, true, but I love my life over the trains rides for the same reason I love my 1970 Scout.

There’s nicer rides out there–Saabs, Subarus, Lexus Stepford family trash–but I got the free and clear title rolled up in the glove box.  And no one can take it away.