There is an imperceptible popping,
the sound of a groaning railroad-bridge splintering,
its sagging trusses bearing heavy loads
she knows a single car could never abide.
There is a wanting; she can see it,
the thousand-yard stare, something brooding
below the surface, bubbling-up like sulfur
cueing the cliché of an impending geyser.
“I’m going to the American Legion,”
words that halve her heart in-
between holding reins and loosing to the river
her pressing stallion, still unbroken.
She believes the Legion is where kinsmen meet,
where we talk about our railroad-cars,
where they were made, what they carry,
what model, unit, and number they are.
She says we are a Legion of model-train collectors,
like tradesmen with a language of our own—
always the topic is railroad-cars;
we never mention bridges.