some of us do stay here      i have a room under
the miniature tunnel the door is a drain-cover
a secret i open only when the tourists have gone
some of the overalled men have wives & they are civil
in fact they smile more than us 'residents'
they often drink from thermoses
they tinker with the engines they collect tickets
       but then they go home
some wives are dead & so we move in here
there are various parts of the community vacant
one hair-pin down near the petunia bed & estuary in particular
that corner has a bad feel to it: the site of a derailing
       back in the 70s it's our equivalent of cheap-real-estate
train-enthusiasts are superstitious       with good reason
on purple nights when we all gather to drink beer & spin
monologues around the tiny turnpike       then perfectly-scaled spirits walk
the village comes alive with their spectral whispers
some seem to catch in my beard       a mixture of human cries
(the justly dead span generations:       the boy gurgling in the water not
yet talking –        the heart-attack veterans out for one last reminisce)       but
also the fairies we created ourselves giggle
the dwarves cease their mining & gather to connive
there is a swarthy & strange life in this place it
is pungent at times       i run the trains by day
       by night      under the tunnel      i write