Barbershop Canyon

by Paul Smith

At night when I should let my
firebox cool and
my pistons rest
I cannot
as they prompt me to
chug along as coal
is getting stoked
my steam is still up
so that engine
the old pufferbelly above my shoulders
will not quit
and I am forced to retrace my tracks
to every valley I went down in
every hill I climbed
all the whistlestops and depots and podunks
I knew
their squalor their beauty
could just one of them
lighten my spirit
and let me drift off to sleep?
Well, maybe that one called
Barbershop Canyon
not so much a canyon
like you see in travelogues
no
it was on that Forest Service Road
where scrub turned to mesquite
mesquite turned to pine
and suddenly got steep
and quiet so that even the birds
kept still
sunlight fell in shafts at an angle
through the pine trees and
there were splotchy shadows on
the forest floor
the wind stopped
so all I heard was my breath
escaping from my cylinders
and it made me want to stay
but I couldn’t
as my boiler tubes were bawling
and my throttle urged me on
to another cowtown
and yes I once tried going back
and found that Forest Service Road
veering off the oil that went to
Clear Creek
and you were with me
and I wanted to show it to you
and we weaved towards the Rim
all the while me thinking
how much
Mormon Lake Lodge had already disappointed
and the Brown Mug too
its chow mushy and bland
this dirt road became unrecognizable
me still thinking
how once I had captured something
now not trembling exactly
but cautious
I should lose it forever
so we turned back
me saying this gravel
could give us a flat
and you agreeing
knowing me so well
now lying beside me
as I toss and turn
touching my forehead
and whispering softly to my smokebox
that both of you
will stay with me till daybreak