by Martin Heflin

Created on: October 25, 2009

SOUTHBOUND

One A.M.

The C & S train is pulling

Out of Radnor Yards

Headed Southbound.

Though four miles distant

And winter, late and warm,

You lie feeling the rumble of

The steel in your marrow.

You stare at the ceiling.

Train tracks now visible

In aerial view you trace it's path

Down I-65 and under in Brentwood.

Now west of Interstate

It rumbles, gently rolling

Like a ship under good steam

In a gentle sea

Through the rolling hills of Franklin.

In college once after burnt red-eyed exams

You rode the southbound, the Floridan,

From under crumpling roofed train shed

At Union Station where lean and sleek negroes

Watched from the shadows and the steam.

Suspicious, but too tired to care

You boarded and fell asleep.

Only to awaken to the gentle ferry-like rolling or

One side straining and the other responding as

You threaded your way softly southbound.

Activity in the bar car and with guitar in hand

You ambled aft.

A Vietnam veteran with one leg half gone

And pretty blond stringy haired hippie girl

Laughed at the bar.

Peanuts and warm beer set the mood:

Congenial and American.

He wears fatigues, one leg neatly buttoned at the knee,

A claymore necessitated tailoring.

She wears jeans, Thai dye, headband.

You are proper, shorthaired preppy ROTC type,

But there is the guitar.

Beers later a common bond in the music and the train.

Just three souls sifting through our lives,

Heading southbound.

Dawn comes to your window seat early.

Vet and hippie slept in a booth.

Politely, you returned to your seat.

Clackety clackety of trestle bridge over

Marshland north of Montgomery.

Fish and waterfowl scatter as the vibrating

Restless trestle shatters the morning calm.

The train turning East, bearing in on Dothan.

The sun burning through the tinted glass

Warming the white plastic headrest covers.

Balance is difficult as with beerful bladder

You head aft again.

First stop the rest room.

In there you can stand and relieve, wedged

Between the patterned steel sideboard and the window.

Better.

Then back to the bar car.

Old white haired man in ill-fitting jacket serving breakfast:

Coffee black,eggs over easy, limp bacon, buttery thin toast in neat triangles,

And the Savior of Southern Culture, grits.

Dothan and morning confusion as passengers eject at the station.

Searching for grandmother you hold tight to the guitar.

You pass the Vet, now hippieless, who implores you to keep the faith.

It's been over thirty years now,

And in the unending mystery of time I lie wondering

Where they are and if I did.

In time I will know,

I will see when I am, once again,

Headed southbound.

Learn more about this author, Martin Heflin.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.