Through the gaps in the cars, scenes come in flashes, clickety clack,
While in hypnotic rotation squeaking wheels glide down the track,
Like a sad good bye a slow whistle blows at my back,
It vanishes into the night, clickety clack, clickety clack.
With mechanical remorse the foghorn does blow,
Telling ships which were lost, the correct way to go,
Speaking to those who would listen in a deep baritone,
Unseen yet still heard in the fog it does blow.
I tarry with hunger as the surf pounds the shore,
Thinking of mythical stories where our love ends in lore,
No reason need be given as I wait for you once more,
Just me and the wind driven surf upon the shore.
Far off traffic on the interstate, those distant sounds within the night,
Bring memories of another time, seen briefly with introverted sight,
Soft but insistent, they leave a bit of peace, a brief respite,
Those far off interstate sounds within the night.
By rcpollitz