Hopping Conrail

A steady clacker: evening freight skims
a rail, balancing on one foot
then the other, repeating the measure
again. A pole barn rides alongside
We are there, on the roof’s edge.
timing the train’s arrival,
hopping Conrail.
With a rough thud
we land the top of a boxcar,
then skin the cat to get inside.
Mike pulls out a Buck knife
and cuts into a bag: apples.
He whittles it down and eats what's left.
We roll a ride from one side of town to
the other,

until it curled around
the last leg of city
it slows again, affording time
to leap off the side and tumble down hill,
Left in its wake.