TROOP TRAIN

TROOP TRAIN
Long lines of odd train cars slowly roll by
Clicking and clacking, grimy and taint.
We think we can read the names of their lines,
Dirty old logos, under fresh white paint.
Coming from somewhere and going some place
Pulled by an engine where diesel smoke flared.
The old cars, rolling coffins, were packed full
Of young soldiers who had not, as yet, been scared.
Their beardless young faces,
Some with grins, some with tears,
Hung far out the windows,
Giving many loud cheers.
We jumped off our porches
And ran apace of their whoops.
We waved and saluted
Heroes-to-be in tan suits.
And then something happened
That hadn’t happened before.
They crowded the platforms where car linked to car,
Every window was open, their arms reaching out.
Throwing papers weighted with pennies,
“Write me, write me! Tell your sisters to write me!”
they would shout.
We scooped up their papers and ran close beside,
Begging for bullets or insignias or hats.
They laughed as they told us
They could spare none of that.
We ran and ran, until shaking and winded,
We stopped, only to wave and give a salute
As their faces grew small and then faded,
Those heroes-to-be in tan Army suits.
My pockets were scrammed full and so was my hands.
But the cars kept on coming, so steady and slow,
Like slow running rivers
Where their blood would soon flow.
Mumbling, “Loose lips sink ships,”
The crossing guard came out of his shack,
He took the notes from our pockets
And never gave them back.
That was fifty-six years ago now
When with wide eyes and spent limbs,
I watched them pass, thinking somehow
After the war, I would see them again.
By: James Carl Collins (James' father)