It just dawned on me that the name of the restaurant I am sitting in, “The Caboose” is so named because it is less than fifty yards from the tracks. A train is rolling past now, the locomotive already gone from sight.  Giant moving metal shapes on wheels fill my view through the picture window as I sip my coffee forgetting that it has already gone cold. It looks like there are over eighty and probably closer to one-hundred cars linked and moving deliberately through the intersection with no signs of slowing down. Black tankers filled with oil dominate the procession with a few freight cars mixed in heading south down the line. Graffiti covers the lower portion of many of the cars defying obvious efforts to paint over it. White and red lettering in gangland font cryptically announcing fealty to a modern-day tribe heading for taut suburban enclaves and small one-traffic-light towns one after the other until the rails run out of steel. The final car arrives and it is not a caboose. Just a regular freight car with an antenna and a blinking light. Something for the next owner of the restaurant to consider.

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