My father labored
thirty years on the railroads.
Not driving those sleek gray
air-conditioned locomotives.
But fixing track
under sun so hot
he should have had a fireman standing by.
He worked with some
who finally quit
but he didn’t follow.
As work slaves go,
he was never all that eager
to free himself.
Did he hammer with hatred?
Did he tighten a bolt
like strangling the bosses?
I tried looking in his eyes for answers
but they were always sleepy
by the time they got to me.
He kept everything to himself
but his smudged brow sweat
and his gritty fingernails.
His life has long gone dark.
But his memory stops by,
cracks open a beer,
doesn’t utter a word.
It usually happens
near midnight
as a distant train glides by.
It passes over a ballast he laid,
nudges a fishplate he aligned.
He is still the phantom
of a job well done.
