the a train

between the freight cars,
called the joints of forward movement,
steel ribs that glare reflections of a nostalgic midday,
a couple rusted chain links are all that's keeping us together,
the miracle metal,
and the dirty windows,
bumping and swooning through the cattail pokelogan,
the marsh and the mud,
stationed and stagnant,
underneath the shadows of all those waving white flags,
flapping in compliant surrender