The rail lies cold against my ear,
listening not for a train
but hoping to hear the muffled
cries of a damsel in distress.
Sensing none, I follow the tracks
to the industrial warehouses,
hoping to find a brave and beautiful
reporter suspended over a vat of acid.
But these days the trains don’t run,
villains silence the press with lawyers
and I’ve learned that gratitude
fades with the morning dew
and a hero’s scars are just plain ugly
in the harsh light of every day.