Hobo's Road

There are no trains that run here. Even so
the town aligns itself to unseen tracks
and every night I hear the whistle blow.

Our sons and daughters go and don’t come back.
No-one talks about it, but we know
the town aligns itself to unseen tracks.

As in the sunset’s dreamy afterglow
as when the dawn draws light out of the black
no-one talks about it, but we know

there’s something out there, something that we lack
a thing half-light can only halfway show
as when the dawn draws light out of the black.

At midnight, vision’s full. At midnight, go.
The hobo’s road is open, just a crack
a thing half-light can only halfway show,

a thing that day will hide behind this fact:
there are no trains that run here. Even so,
the hobo’s road is open, just a crack
and every night, I hear the whistle blow.