Sylderon

I drive pass an empty factory in Dayton and stop to notice the train tracks, their rust tops barley sticking over the dusty pavement, crisscrossing here and there to now phantom buildings.  I can see a glimpse of the past.  Men in sharp denim overalls of navy and grey, hustling dollys of crates, and loading growling trucks with curved fenders and round headlights.  There is aman with giant welder's gloves directing a forklift, and and a smart looking Alco with gold "Baltimore and Ohio" on it's blue flanks, snaking from building to building.  A flat blast of it's airhorn signals a pick-up of a lone red boxcar reading, "Ship it on the FRISCO...