By Matthew Tener Wade

He could still hear,

that long train whistle

as it came into town,

and the way it echoed

down the wide streets of the city.


He could still feel,

the rush of the steam

as it ruffled his cloths,

and dampened his hair,

setting the children all to giggles.


He could still see,

the smoke billowing

past the the tall buildings,

and the long train track

as it streched far to the horizon.


And still he knew,

that there was no whistle

and there was no smoke

only the empty tracks

and those long empty echoes.


For they still sound,

off the buildings

and down those streets

coming back to us

as memories, only to be forgotten.

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