Iron Horses

Every midnight I hear iron horses
gallop, hear their whinnies echo metal
through the sodium-vapor vault of heaven.
Hoofprints, limned in ozone, rust and oxide
in the street, retrace their hidden courses
through the city. Steam from every kettle
brewing tea or coffee up at seven
shapes remembered horses.
Down at dockside
iron ships that travel without sails
wait while loaders drive in on the freeways.
Leaning gantries whisper to each other:
"Change is coming, sister-ship, crane-brother.
Coal and steam were king and queen, but these days
lightning whips the horses on their rails."

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