This train-yard is no home, but it’s close with the ghost of mobility haunting every horn-blast; yet still I stay, stealing hours after dark to stutter down the lines and back again to find a place to lay and put off sleep like here between these two old freights scheduled to continue mañana with cargo I’ll never buy. I admit: I’m the one that pulled down the stars last night; I clawed the sky with these idle hands just to hear them fall on steel rails. Buttery explosions whitewashed every sooty whistle that night. I collected the glowing rocks, all my pockets could hold, to put towards a honest fare to that mythic land “Anywhere-but-here,” but dawn came right on time. That sweaty sun strolled across the sky, the way it always does, making fools of all. But, when that sun called it quits for the day, each star was remained where it belonged: fixed in the night’s canvas. I cursed my hubris for thinking I could change the sky, pockets full of rocks, and me no further from this train-yard than yesterday. How let down you would be, John Henry, if you could see all I haven’t done, if you could see how I’ve let your hammer rust. I’m sorry for not keeping the story straight. One day, I’ll quit this trainsmoke and drive my name through steel and dirt. I’ll haul at least one star through the Big Ben Tunnel near Talcott, West Virginia, even if I have to dig the tunnel myself.