Diving Off the Broad Creek Trestle

Smoke snorting, the train charges straight for a pre-destined patch of roofs. It will only stop long enough to swallow a different generation of red-eyed, feverish salesmen before it hugs the old road, crashing through the bellowing green. Each clank, carom, of the hot steel against the sagging oak invites me to reach for the passing ladders, compels me to swing up, plop down into the cozy velvet armchairs where I would dissipate the club car gin and wrestle in the womb of the sleeping cars. But the wind holds me back.