Tony, remember our ride,
Richmond to Lynchburg, Virginia,
on the small woodburning train?
Four cars ran on the narrow rails
through sunset fields
dotted white with dogwood.
The dining car? Our conductor
smiled. “If you hungry, we wire
ahead to a widow lady, fixes
a fine box supper for you-all.”
At one stop we lost a coach,
at one we ran forward, climbed
to the woodsmoke cab of the kingly
engineer, waved on by childhood.
At dusk two boxes came aboard:
fried chicken, cupcakes, strawberries.
How long since that folktale ride
across five counties? Descending
in the night, we found that ours
was the final and the only car.