Pre-war machine was black muscle,
raw and sun-trained,
with a banshee voice tried by
rushing country gales,
when the hoisting of the hammer
set the rhythm of the wails.

Built by laborers who gave their backs
to drive ties through miles of alloyed track,
the majestic freighter of oil paintings
and folk transport, of engineers’ dreams,
this masculine merchant of suffering.

(I showed Dylan to the Village,
chuffed Guthrie through the Midwest,
planted Johnson in the dark soil of the Delta
to whisper words with the Devil.)

Tonight, a constellation queen
shines upon sleepless boxcar bums,
who worship her with turnings of the tongue
on dollar store harmonicas.

They sweat, weighed-down
with layers of found clothing,
hands clutching the brown
paper husk enfolding
their fermented medicine.

Canned beans, booze,
and bare feet on fire rocks.

In dreams they’ll have
a waitress with a double name,
a carafe, and an ass like a Montana mare.