On The Track

The tracks run west past the duckback,

its at-attention hyacinths,

the tin mill and its rusty flanks

and curves past the golfers (shot, sir)

until it finds its own rhythm,

thrum of steel wheel and nature

carving up the countryside:

pines and gnarly gums, the plain

widening until it tricks the eye.

In this heat, you can smell the leather

and those who took this little trip

feel the chromed luggage rods,

shudder at the jolting pull of the engine

and, best of all, draw in the smoke.

They close their eyes as the driver

adjusts his navy cap, snaps a little lever

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