1.
He said Those are journals—in the old days they would take pads soaked in oil
And they'd throw them in the journals to lubricate the wheels
He said When I started on the railroad they still had a couple of cars left with them
We'd grab the used pads out of the journals and go to the caboose—
It had a potbellied stove we'd throw them in—
He said The stovepipe would get red
He said And boy I'll tell you it would get toasty

2.
That single car full—do you think it was a simple rejection
That fabric which to raise and support the seams in this world vs. another
What would it be—canvas, boot leather
She would clutch her sheets and mourn, a shirt, an apron, was it the little dog’s fur—
There’s a line in Darkness Visible
Comparing the illness to being trapped in a hot room—

3.
He notices one car out of hundreds en route to Sioux City sitting low on the springs—
He knows that yard only takes empties, but he says to himself That looks like a load—
A customer rejected the delivery or the delivery wasn’t made, but there it goes—
He watches it pass by
He says, Some of these guys had families at both ends of the line

4.
He still dreams he’s gotten all the way to work before noticing he forgot his boots
In the dream he’s afraid the engineers will see his bare feet, so he doesn’t use the walkway
He walks up to the yard through the uncleared snow—
If I ever see you again, I’ll know you need money

5.
The blue shirt I gave you to cover the rain
May as well have been the rain