Trains

Seems like the trains have been running through the city forever. As long as I can remember anyway. Like the riverboats of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer and Mark Twain, they take people toward their dreams. Some head off to Hollywood. Some to New York City. Some go to the country where the dreamers farm. I know, I know. Who wants to farm? Lot of hard work, and no guarantee. That’s what makes them a dream. The lack of a guarantee.

My dream is to just sit here and watch the trains pass me by. Last Sunday I came to this station and watched the trains up close and personal the way I always do. Sunday is a good day for that. There was this woman, blonde hair, blue eyes, pretty as a peach. Sitting here waiting for a train. “Where you going?” I asked.

“Any place but here,” she answered. She was leaving her husband. Getting the hell out of Dodge. Then she smiled. She had the kind of smile that could make a man happy his whole life if he were the right kind of man. Her husband wasn’t. So she was taking off with “No More.”

I watched her get on the train and thought about leaving too. I thought real hard. Then I turned and headed back to my one room apartment. I had lost my suitcase of dreams a long time ago.

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