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The switchyard station seems ridiculously small in front of the triple train tracks. The dismal gray and brown cinder groundcover looks as barren as the Moon, lacking even weeds poking up between the coarse pebbles. Past the tracks, heaps of weed-covered dirt as big as houses must be an abandoned landfill or failed construction. A few boxcars and car haulers sit on sidings, most of them so rusty with neglect that you’d have to bring in WD-40 by the tanker to get the wheels to turn. Despite the clear blue sky and the late afternoon sunlight, no birds peck at the ground. Decades of oil and grunge are ground into the brickwork, so thick that even the air tastes of engine lubricant. Merely standing here means I’ll need to shower in degreaser tonight.
My shiny leather funeral shoes aren’t
