Screeching metal on metal
banging like gunfire
over every imperfection
all-steel tires and
steaming off rain
with heat by convection.
Never to settle, always
headed somewhere, pounding
on rails, over gravel
and through the air, past
the water and without
fare, for the cargo is
its own money.
Further than doubt,
the helmsman throws
his arm out, sipping
whiskey sweet as honey.
Segment after segment faster
than to count, like a great
45mph worm with its
master in denim form,
sitting warm inside
its head.
Jaws open, to
reveal a blinding light,
it calls to its brethren
like whales,
who only know that
it is there,
but not where.
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