His friends out of town, summer stretched, 

faded to boredom on the stoop.

No sandlot baseball, no trek 

cross-city to the outdoor pool,

where a dime would pay a day of splashes,

no county fair yet, no dare to train hop.

He’d once heard Uncle Fire & Brimstone

preach about idle hands … but 

his shouting seemed more frightening

than any demon the boy could imagine.

He could ride to Hoffman’s Drug Store, 

on his violet Sting-Ray with banana seat,

butterfly chrome handlebars, 

but even that much cool wasn’t 

the same solo at the soda fountain 

with lawn-mowing money.    

Maybe he’d spark coins on train tracks 

across the field, behind the factory 

down the end of the street, 

in what that preacher’d call wrong side.

The boy rummaged in his dad’s garage, 

stashed a wood-splitting wedge, 

roll of duct tape inside his ball mitt,

hanging from the handlebars.

He biked to the factory field, 

crept through drought-dry weeds.

Trackside, he saw the distant freight train

coming in on time, city slow, horn sounding.

From the engine, railroad cops watched 

for hoboes and kids making dares, 

with pennies pulled from pockets filled 

with Boy Scout knives and Zippo lighters. 

The boy taped the wedge to a rail, 

hurried into the weeds, took a deep breath, 

held it as the train bore down: 

the rattle─the squeal─the sparks─

A wobble vibrated down the line of cars.

Rail cops yelled and pointed.

He could never hide good enough.

Two men jumped from the engine

but couldn’t see through the smoke

billowing from wind-whipped fire.

“Where’d that come from?” 

The boy knew. 

Chased by what-ifs, he tore home,

stashed his bike behind the garage,

where his dad putzed around

when he wasn’t driving a truck, 

hunting, telling tales from a bar stool.

Fire sirens wailed in the distance.

In the garage, the boy watched, worried.

When railmen stopped by, his dad said,

“My boy’s been here with me all day.”