Her Railroad Men Poem by Deborah Lee Pruett

She hears heavy thunder,
she feels the ground shudder.
Number nine's on time,
the whistle is shrieking.

Dark years of depression
she might not have survived,
but for railroad men,
who buy her time each night.

She turns on soft music,
flips on the cracked porch light.
She fluffs her hair, then
she examines her hose.

Each night finds her sitting,
curled up in the corner
of an old green couch
waiting for sweet callers.

They always knock softly,
respectful so polite.
Some will bring flowers,
even kiss her good-night.

They are her railroad men;
she's a lady to them.
Some speak tender words,
others just hold her tight.

She sees glowing headlights,
hears the dry gravel crunch
under the work boots
worn by a dark shadow.

It's a rickety shack
a long way from nowhere.
Still, her railroad men
make the journey each night.