The Fall of One

There lay a derailed train,

like a toddler who had teetered

and tipped smoothly to the ground.


The fall appeared to have been from a dead stop

because the wheels were almost parallel

to the tracks.

Maybe it was a bully

or a strong wind.


He stares



from the round handle on the round smokebox door

that also looks like

a pitiful, o-shaped mouth.


He looks for aid,

resting atop his dented chimney,

but everyone is behind him.


A gaggle of workers stand back down the track

on gravelly, mud-packed railroad ties.

Some self-important

in pillbox hats

and hands pocketed casually in overalls,

with legs propped on the rails, pompously discussing

what's to be done.


One distant observer lounges

on the




fist supporting his hatless head

with a careless, far-off gaze.


This poem is about: 
My country


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