The day the last brick was laid over my mouth,
My rails and ties pulled like old teeth, the furrows
In my floor left like hollowed gums, I was safe

Inside this vaulted peace. The steam trains long
Gone, took with them my guttural roar, crowds
Of parasoled ladies, top hatted gawkers and dull

Comments on my short length or arched roof —
My youth and all the chance I had for greatness.
What stole my voice was the newer breed, who

Did not like the ferry from Manhattan. The rails
Were nice to ride — six hours over wild moraine
Glaciers had deposited, where foxes stalked

Pheasants, egrets flew. But then came a day-long
Sail to Boston from Long Island over open sea,
Bit by foggy breath of seasons. Besides, Robber

Barons, with titles to Connecticut’s shore, thought
Better to line their silk pouches with more Gold: No
Mercury yet lived asleep in stone, stars had not yet

Shown indoors. Stations grew across East River in another
Wild of woods and farms beyond that town. I was quieted
before my voice was young, bankrupted. I am hidden, safe.

This poem was first published in Big City Lit.

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