The rail road runs behind my house 24 hours a day. But it's loudest at night when the rack of box cars rumbles against the western slope, echoing across the Hackensack River valley.
Wise men and women decided to clean up the water front for light rail and residential development only to dirty up the interior, hiding America's mechanisms here so that we can paint a good face towards NYC.
Sometimes, these trains even run through my sleep, dragging me back to high school when I used to cut classes and hop freights for Suffern, each dream, however, bringing me to some new and unexpected place, and I wake, vaguely aware that I have been some place new, but not knowing where.
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