Pitched

 

From freight

car to car,

in pitch dark,

westbound,

in the Rockies,

you leapt,

seventeen,

wiry and hungry,

as cars lurched,

shuffled,

jerked,

nearly dashed

you head-first,

but you leaned back

 

 

Only twenty cars left to leap,

cold, but blood moved,

                                                                                    feet firm to metal,

you assured I would hear the tale,     

fist over tablecloth,

seventy-two years later.