Speaking of revolutions,
ours was like a train:
slow to start, but nearly impossible
to stop.
And according to the local legends,
those wheels churn on to this very day.

But what the story-tellers,
the bards of Pennsylvania, neglect to mention
is that the first half of the story
took place only in two separate,
but equally hungry imaginations.

She taught herself to love
the same way I taught myself
to whistle:
like a train.