Under the tressel
was a bit of ironwork
that formed a table

and we sat 
and smoked
and watched the river
and gnat clouds
roll by
and for most moments
the place was our own

but occasionally
a whistle would sound
and the table shook

and a train passed overhead

at no more than five or ten 
miles an hour

and we would stare up 
into the immensity of it
as it screeched along

and when it would quiet again
and the mosquito hum
returned to our ears

we would continue to bullshit
and smoke
and laugh-
only
a little quieter.