Discontent

Late at night
our trains pass through broad meadows.

We grip controls, heavy, uncertain, anxious
about schedules,
about stalled cars on tracks,
about small children darting through the night,
small children who dare steel wheels and blinding lights
who dare death at our trembling hands;

we guide our trains
probing the night
along the measured way,

discontent,

without incident.

poem by Steven Federle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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