The trains still run through small,
eccentric towns,
Mostly
at night, the children, brave in their beds,
Dreaming
of sleeping somewhere else, so young
They
think that Indiana is escape—
Trains
still pass by the silos, which are not
Mere
symbols of desire, and they pass
What
used to be a station, but is now
A
home for unwed orphans, and they pass
Fireflies
making fun of locomotives.
And
nobody jumps the train. If it slows down,
That’s
so the engineer can take a leak
On
Illinois, grateful for the attention.
The
children who wake up—well, more or less—
Will
check if they are now emancipate.
They’re
not; but tracks still run both ways at once.