Salter's Point and The Trestle

When we had nothing

to our good names but time

we wasted the flower of our youth

down at the trestle.

Up in the bones of the span

like bandits laid and waiting

hours and weeks passed;

nestled and lazy,

in dovetail joints

of creosote slick thighs.

It was there

under the track

we waited all ears

for the bright iron hum

telegraphing the arrival

of every southbound train.

We came with pocket change offerings

spread out for sacrifice

along the ribbons of track

running ambivalently

above our foolish heads.

When we had nothing

the only buzz you could cop,

the only rush that was free,

was waiting for you

under the trestle rails

with the promise

of each passing train.