There's a train yard in the old town.
It's just a place to be
for the rusted and the idle.
No workshoe'd men will beat
a spike down; no out of breath beast
will wheeze up those old rails
in the graveyard of the boxcars.

There's a footbridge in the train yard
above the rusted veins,
just as old as all the old ways
put down to rest below.
It's a place where I am free to
confess to steel and wood
I have failed to be their equal.

Less than they in this cold season,
I'm quick to put them down,
those long hard lines of the old town.
But even lost in time,
some strange dignity attends them,
and all that's gloss can shine
not as bright, not as undying.