The Sound of a Tornado

I had never heard a train before.
But everyone always told me that
a tornado sounds just like a train,
and I had heard one of those,
so at half past midnight I stood
by the tracks and waited for
the sound of a tornado.

It was August and the weather
could have been warmer, but
I stood with my pinstriped
jacket to block the breeze
and fought to keep my hair
from obstructing my vision
so I could see a little bit better
while I looked for a single headlight.

I was counting the minutes until 12:34am
when the train was due, and tried to focus
on anything but the wait. I counted
the number of people in the station;
tried to imagine how many years
it had been since the vending
machines worked; walked in and out
of the dilapidated building, feeling
the difference between the tile and
the concrete under my red high-heeled shoes.

Sometimes I even dared
to set my feet on the tracks themselves,
half expecting them to spring like
bear traps and hold me there
to be annihilated by a
gear-and-steam powered giant.

After an eternity, a bright ball of light
made its way around the bend half a mile down
the track, and I took a few steps back,
checked the clock--12:34, right on time.
The tornado-whistle sounded.
The monster's wheels slowed and screeched
and stopped, and I stood with the
wind streaking through and the clouds
hiding the comfort of moonlight, but
I wouldn't go inside the run-down
building for warmth again until I saw
every inch of the train.

I'd never seen a passenger train so close.
I tried to take in the details--
the cars, the numbers on them, the
people in the windows rushing to leave
or slowly gathering their things,
all of it a spectacle to me.

But the details of the train got
jumbled up and lost in the mass of
arms and legs and hats and coats
and luggage bags and children hanging
on their parents' arms, and while I was trying
to mentally photograph every last face
I was only really looking for you.