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.”

1 Comment

  1. stephen kilborn says:

    i read this poem in high school 40 years ago. i still remember it and finally looked it up again. i had thought the title was omaha, but that is another one of carl’s poems. i think this is a great poem, quit modern for mr. sanburg.

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