Tears of the Evening Train

When it cries at sundown 
I imagine a tired old conductor. 
He’s wearing his tired blue uniform,
blue suit, blue hat and tie, 
chugging up the aisle and calling out 
for tickets again. His slow voice echoes
around the mostly vacant train cars
as low silver sunbeams fall
through the west windows, 
glinting across his hole puncher and 
around the little paper circles which float
to the floor like dead leaves in autumn.
“Tickets,” he bellows once more,
numbed by his single-track
routine, by miles and miles 
of arriving only to leave.