Earl Franklin Baker
In Railroad Town the yard goats toil
And powder up the rails with sand;
While journals get the waste and oil,
The crummy silently does stand.
The hotshot’s clamor fills the air;
The drill crew men, all lean and brown,
Go dancing nightly to the blare
Of herding cars in Railroad Town.
I know, for I too was one of these,
The dumbest boomer of the band,
A youthful spring in legs and knees,
A bright glim ready in my hand.
From beanery queens I got my cue
To swap a kiss or play the clown;
It mattered not, when jobs were new
And likewise short . . . in Railroad Town.
I close my eyes and see them still:
The bakehead scooping, black with dust;
The pinhead cutting off the mill;
The play of lights on streaks o’ rust;
The girl who worked at Mother Hall’s;
The stake you saved, the Super’s frown—
What mem’ries haunt my cottage walls
In Railroad Town, in Railroad Town.