Time was, Rita loved the clickity-clackity of steel wheels on metal rails,
the long, low sound of a whistle at midnight and noon.
For many, the coal-oil scent of trains,
the sight of rails disappearing over the horizon
quickened the heart, caused feet to roam.
Not for Rita. She spread roots and settled.
Then the hoot of the whistle turned to squealing brakes.
Metal grinding on metal replaced the rhythmic clickity-clack
and an iron-scent of blood filled the air.
How many times had she told little Tom, “Keep your coins in your pocket.”?
She hefted her suitcase and locked the door.
Up From the Ashes 