Running out of Places we have not Been

Burglars, I thought,
Every time the clock ticked without warning.
In 1997, in the summer,
days fall off the calendar like leaves.
And I wondered like I did every morning,
Why someone would park an entire train
On a grassy lot across from a house,
or from the H. Carter Construction Co.
Which was really just a house –
One in which you must
Navigate stacks of yellowed paper
Piled on root-beer stained carpet,
To find the office.
My father, some guy I called “Dad,” sat there
Behind this desk; so full of the most frustrating things
Like pens, documents, paperclips, calculators,
And every other weapon
You might find in a businessman’s arsenal.

Repeatedly I asked for access to the train.
“No,” I was told. “It’s someone’s property.”
“Whose? And where is his key?”
No one ever knew.
Who was this lazy conductor?
Always late, never letting passengers aboard
The property express.

I crossed the street carefully,
as if wading into the ocean.
The rusting iron monster grew larger.
Even the windows were vaults.
Thick white curtains barred the slightest view.
The door on the final train car was a valve –
A bronze wheel that I knew was only just
beyond my ability to turn.
I used a branch in an attempt to pry it open
I used half the forest in an attempt to pry it open.
My hands raw, my clothes dirty,
while silhouettes hiding in the train
Laughed from the windows;
Explorers with more fortitude than I,
But less responsibility:
They turned it into suburbia.