Riding Rails

Jumping cars and riding rails
down a track or two…or three
All beginning, on the
metaphorical farm, of life - or
perhaps, just within me.

Baggy pants, thoughts and tramps
Graveled throat and dust
A campfire, spirits,
freedom roads and lust.

Beans and Billycans,
Flowers for the man
Standing on a soapbox
On my corner of the world
Doing what I can.

Switching tracks, crossroads
No turning back
Riding rails, with parent’s dreams
like cold steel, pressed against my back.

Now here I sit,
Riding rails, grey hair on head
Parents long gone, both dead
Sitting back remembering,
What each one had said.

Funny thing,
being out there on my own
All I wanted to do,
Was turn around, and take the first track
All the way, back home.

Nonetheless, I forged ahead
Freedom of the metaphorical rails
Taking Life’s tracks instead.

But with all that said,
I made my way,
despite my rights and wrongs.
I rode those rails, sang those songs
And fell in love, along the way
With life, and just the way it is.