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.
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.
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
fist supporting his hatless head
with a careless, far-off gaze.