For the Old Caltrain

I will miss the rumblings, the bumblings, the stumblings
On rough-shod iron wheels and well-worn springs and things
And the rattle, the marvelous rattle, of steel panels, much better than the flapping
of plastic panels on the new ones.

Or a northbound train, on which one could stand
Like a captain on a ship
at the front door of the rear car, hurtling into the future, propelled by the engine in the back
which was going in reverse — (the old diesels were only ever oriented south; a good direction).

I shall miss the springy seats, perfectly inclined for napping;
The new ones are perfect for staying alert and working, which is to say
they are not perfect
And I shall miss the tug of movement, much gentler than the mad push and pull of so many motors;
give me one good engine, and I shall move the world, or at least to San Francisco.

I suppose I say these things, in defense of transit past
In hopes that when I am gone, it will
not only be said of my replacement
That he is better, faster, and good for the environment.
But at least one person will lament
That around him it is much harder to take a nap
and in intimate hours admit: they prefer the older of the two.