Rail-splitters don’t often get lost
in cyberspace
and when they stroke themselves,
it’s most often to the cadence
of old Chevy turn signals-
you know, the ones on dusty,
almost-forgotten intersections
near stations with the most heartache.

Heavy timber aside,
fatigue (from fresh air)
draws stalwart pickle-eaters
to diners with open-faced sandwiches
and lots and lots of gravy.
Coffee mistaken for counsel,
grumbles covering pride,
old men fighting for place.

No room for an ode
where a limerick may go,
words to such men
are akin to reading a backwards clock,
hoping to predict weather
by counting knee aches and cricket chirps.
They split hours, laughing at young love
keeping their coffee and gravy in place.