Back then we put our pennies on the tracks
and waited for the thunder of the boxcars
to pound the Lincoln from their faces, so flat
the mint of it was worthless, priceless, rare.
Those were days the full sun of Los Angeles
crushed us as we thumbed the polished metal
to search for evidence: a god we trust,
a liberty, a date. It takes a god to kill
a god, to have it drummed beneath the thrust
of this world. But as I looked down the rails,
I saw something of another, its parallels
that narrowed as they rose against the heat,
so close they almost met, as a man might meet
the boy he was, faceless in the distance.