Coast Starlight

this

is a poem

about a train.

it’s not about Jack London,

or the square that bears his name.

it’s not about Oakland or its waterfront

corralled in chain-link and padlocks.

this is not a poem about the clinging

clockwork fog of the Bay.

this is a poem about an ice plant

hangover and wearing destinations for a name.

this is not about gridlock on the bridge

or digging for change to pay your dues.

this is about the 5am fugue state

and wearing borrowed shoes.

there’s nothing here for the urchins

who pocket farmer’s market pears,

this is not a poem for the Fisherman’s Wharf,

Divisadero, or Alamo Square. this poem

is about yellow paint and 68 tons of aluminum

that glide on two rails. This is not a poem about Coyote Ranch

or its black mare that bows to drink

from the shrinking slough at her hooves.

it's about taking a piss in locomotion and bathing in a sink

of stainless steel. this is not a poem about the defunct

tires buried beside ATV cut lanes, or those roads

that form a network of sallow veins

across the valley steeps. This is not

a poem about the six hundred head of cattle

on their knees beneath the sun, or their calloused necks

wedged between bars of iron.

It’s not a poem about riflemen on the towers

of Salinas Valley State, or its two stars on Google Reviews.

who among us could read on

after Danny, I miss you.?

this is a poem about a flask of rum

and a seven-letter word for fail to resist.

there’s not enough room in this poem

for the two brown bodies wrapped in hazmat-blue,

mixing poison and fertilizer

in repurposed Castrol drums.

this is a poem about aisle way acrobats and a handful

of headrest to brace each step. It’s not a poem

about the bionic landscape of San Ardo.

this is about Cuesta Pass and its hairpin turn

taken leviathan-slow.

It’s not a poem about the shuttle

or Vandenberg

Latent on their diatomaceous cliffs. this is a poem

about sparking spliffs in the smoking car,

trading jokes with couples from Cal Poly

who met over jokes about Scientology

and comparing scars. This is a poem about the two-minutes

of solid ground holiday at each station

along the way, not migrant families in the fields

pinching stomachs to their thighs. This poem is not

about a patchwork heirloom they'll never own.

It’s not about what they've sown in generations

worth of tendon and bone. This is a poem about boring through

mountains, cut connections, and dead zones.

it’s about witnessing a great river’s submission

to an ocean greater still.

this is not about the cavalier Sunday brunchers

come down from the hills to slum it on the pier.

it’s not about sun hats and orchid print or feeding

promenade rock squirrels while you sip beer.

there’s nothing here about the rookery of lions

when the sounds of urgency erupt.

it’s not about the body

that washes up on the beach or the sand fleas

somersaulting in the gore,

and who could ignore the half-ton smell

carried for miles downshore?

this poem is about a train, plain and simple.

it’s not about the dirge sung by eager gulls

or the jeremiad of an orphan beleaguered by it all.

it’s not about how the wind-driven marionettes converge,

or their sails overhead tearing

great black gashes in the Sun.

it’s not about the Mercedes Benz

at a roadside fruit stand, or the difference

between Oxnard’s La Colonia and Silver Strand.

this is a poem about the command of steel

barrelling through the brine of sea air,

not day-trippers emptying shoes full

of fine white sand.

this poem is about headlines, editorials,

and obituaries in the Times. It’s not about the smell

of the taqueria or seared flesh

bathed in garlic, onion, and lime.

it’s not about the cab driver from Sierra Leone

or doing arithmetic for the tip in your head

and it sure as shit isn’t about wishing you’d flown.

this is a poem about ticketing,

the platform and being shown your seat

in 15 minutes flat.

now how’s that for efficiency?

this is a poem about the ham-fisted

footfalls of children

in the aisles playing tag.

it’s about spilled drinks,

clipped elbows and wondering

who let them of their leash.

it’s a poem about tunnels and

these dark thoughts we share,

how the lights flicker

and we scheme. this

is a poem about

a train.