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Life Beneath the Railroad Tracks
I loved my father's garage off the Arterial -
routes 12, 5, and 8 twisting in and out of themselves,
off-ramps like curling lines of gray drool
behind the garage,
train tracks, flattened pennies, tall grass over stone
and broken green bottles of dried mud
inside, pulleys appeared from the thirty-foot high ceiling
as if they were the chains of heaven
-- they could make an entire twin-block feel as light as a swinging
monkey wrench
open frames in the yard, impalas and mustangs -
no doors, free ride, endless seats
-- I see weeds through the floorboard, like I'm flying
a dirty round compressor like a rhino biting a snakehose -
my father would let my brothers and me blast the fine ruddy silt into a
dozen piles on the concrete floor and take air baths if we stepped
outside the overhead doors
smell of grease, of dust, of cool concrete walls in the summer
covered with outdated tool-girl calendars
I assumed were left by the previous owner
all the while across the tracks,
NIMO employed 800 men and women and handed out orange vests and hardhats
like they were candy
Glenn Miller (Click for bio.)