Caboose

When I was young I'd watch the trains go by and watch for the caboose
the little car with the little men watching where they'd been

Instead of like the engineer, charging ahead, hell bent for leather
I must say I still look for that little caboose, wishing they'd let it loose

in whatever prison they'd put in it along with the horse and buggy
and I also miss the train whistle the mournful sound that tugged at my heart

It's gone I say; I haven't heard it in dog's years, and I miss the open box cars
where I'd sometimes see a hobo or a bum as others called him.

Sometimes he'd wave at me and I'd wave back; I wanted to be him
and go places I hadn't been, out to California or maybe White Horse, Canada

On the edge of town we had a water tower with Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis painted on it. They painted over it when he opposed the war.

And they chipped the “German” off the German State Bank; you can still
see where it used to be. Did the bank start the war? Were their customers
the enemy?

I like water towers as much as cabooses. They had one in a nearby town you could see as you were driving south toward town. It's gone now too, a new one towers as ugly as graffito on the side of one of my trains.

Speaking of train whistles, I don't hear thunder claps as much anymore
I love the mighty Zeus and all the Greek Gods; I'm not afraid. I
have lightning rods.                                 Mystery Writer