The Whistle

The iron engine bleeds steam
through clanking piston joints,
white hot coals in the belly,
black stack belching smoke.

The whistle shrieks
across misted fields,
down roads strung orange
with streetlamps,
between the billowed curtains.

There in the darkened room,
he tosses beneath the sheets,
as the howl of driven steam
haunts, then soothes
his heart toward sleep.

Scott Speck
04/13/99