Giggling in denim dungarees,
overalls, and engineer’s caps,

with sunburned cheeks
and chocolate-smeared lips

the color of faded boxcars,
oily ties and rusted spikes,

they kick up dust between the rails
on August afternoons,

flitting from engine to engine,
caboose to caboose, as if

iron horses were clover blossoms
and short-legged bodies were bees.