Neighbors have been whining
of late about the trains
blowing their whistles as they pass
through town. To their ears
it’s a nuisance, but to mine
it’s a comfort, the same as it’s been
in all the other train towns
I’ve lived in down the years,
where the deep exhalations
of locomotives suggest the spent sighs
of fellow travelers, lamps trained
on the dim landscape ahead
as they push on toward home.

Michael Hill‘s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Midwestern Gothic, Concho River Review, Tilde, Third Wednesday, Gray’s Sporting Journal, Opossum, Soundings East and other fine publications. He grew up in Western Wisconsin and currently makes his home in Northern Colorado.