Somewhere between Columbus and Milwaukee someone got caught
between making good time
and death. We don’t see it, 

when our double-decker train stops
in the middle of
nowhere. Could be Spain 1985. Passengers rush into the caboose
to get between the scene 

of the accident
and their own lives. A flat
bed truck clipped, a driver without surface 

wounds. Our conductor calmly checks the cars
for damage, calmly requests
that doors and windows remain closed
to keep out a host 

of flies in between thriving
and retired. I remember there being a death 

without betweens—Kokomo, Indiana, 1972. A monsignor, all the way blown away, 

they say, whiskey bottle
in one hand, drove his car through a level
rail crossing, half-barrier gate down, red
lights flashing, warning bell chiming. 

That train whistle must have moaned
a haunting response. The long-long-short-long of it
a broken down code.
It must have been instant. Don’t remember 

what happened to that train—no passengers aboard,
only what gets freighted into the night.