Empty Coal Cars

The Burlington was on time
Its bright light gleaming
Where the tracks
Distantly joined.

Resting my bike in the tall grass
I carefully placed a bright ‘64 penny
On the rail nearest the blacktop
And awaited its metamorphosis.

The Burlington arrived as a thundering storm
Of energy and hurry.
I counted eighty seven
Empty coal cars
Pressing their tonnage
Onto my copper penny.

As the caboose chased the train
I retrieved the copper
A penny no more.
In its transformation
It was warm to touch
A misshapen blob as thin as paper
Made into a talisman of childhood.
In the draining days of innocence
I fingered that copper slug along with pocket change
Until it disappeared in the tumult of years.

I continued to put pennies on rails.
But not real pennies
And not real rails.
Rather, I placed newly minted hopes
Onto tracks extending into the questions of tomorrow.

Pennies, when pressed, lose value.
Hopes also flatten into unexpected shapes
Surprisingly thin.

I have not returned to the Burlington
And any pennies I have
Reside atop my dresser
Among nickels, dimes and quarters.

I have retired magic talismans
And all remaining hope
Is carefully secreted and silent.
Call it a casualty of expended youth
But I no longer press my luck.

Especially beneath the weight
Of empty coal cars.