The 4:15

I'd stick a penny on the tracks and wait for the 4:15. It never came. I wanted it flattened, wanted to hear the billowing smoke of progress. The great iron horse, taking my money and making it souvenir. Memories of cactus and wild Indian, none of them real. I'd put my head to the ground and only get dirty. From far away I'd want to hear those trudging footsteps, the gears and hooves, the timeless elegance of tasteful violence. But I'd put the penny in my pocket again, and try another day.