The whistle of a train afar is an instrument of loneliness. Even when the boy from Indiana with a checkered bandana watches the girl's hair fall down to her neck as we lay in the shade under a mushroom shaped sycamore.
posted by phil at 7:51 PM
phil
wandering
39° 44' N
86° 17' W
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3 Comments:
Haunting post title and words of course. Hoping all is well along your path. :)
Indiana is the place.
Hear the lonesome whipperwill
He sounds too blue to fly
The midnight train
is whining low
I'm so lonesome I could cry
A train rumbles through the bottom of the garden of my childhood home. I love the bass.
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