Argo

In the dark a boxcar grinds

To a free stop. Locomotive smoke

And a dove flock fan and lift

To where the white kite hangs,

String slanted to the willow clump

Where hobo fires burn. Sound and light

On schedule leak into the yard.

A doggy mile-long freight pulls out

Certain of clear track and ample siding.

Doves are scattered and the kite is down

And the fires lost in dawn.

RICHARD F. HUGO

Day and the eastbound train

Curve in. The switchman's wave

Gives east a special distance,

An early eater hope of being-

Like a map, of finding girls

And wisdom waiting in Dubuque.

The swamp means little blurring by

In green and brown. Perhaps the dead

Trade places underground.

Some are major travelers

Who never wave and know each stop

And always where they are,

Smiles relaxed at tangents

And faded from the strain of grades.

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