The Weight of Stolen Freight

You tell me
romanticized tales,
glorious adventures
of
skeleton rides
how the
click, clack
click, clack
heartbeat of the track,
pulse of those roaming rails,
would ease you into slumber,
on the platforms of the grain bins;
your tattered backpack as a pillow.
Boy, if that bag could talk!
Now,
you longingly lament to me,
over video chat,
every time you hear
that sorrowful whistle sound at 10 pm.
Looking away from the camera,
away from me,
with a determined yearning to travel
in your eyes,
" that's my freight, " you say.
I'm just wondering
when
the day will come
When
you won't answer my call.
When
you'll become a ghost.