Limited

I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains
of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air
go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men
and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall
pass to ashes.)
I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he
answers: "Omaha."

by Carl Sandburg

Other poems of SANDBURG (456)

Comments (2)

Know what you mean Martin. I liked it too.
The choice of the word 'Omaha' just brings a big grin to my face.