Coleman Lighthouse

A still humid morning the train blows.

Rail splitter just sad and blue, work two shifts a day till your hands bleed through--Ride the line through that desert night--it's cold as hell and you lost your wife.

So back and forth we plow these pines--Done stripped the forest and cleared the way for the 9 line.  We split those pines into oily bones that the tracks lay down on to take you back home. Those steel rails take you home - 'cept somewhere deep down you be knowin' you follow them with some hope of finding love and you just come home to more work and a bed damn cold.  Just bare down the railroad life - it's ash and struggle and biscuits with strife.  Every now and again them tracks take you back to that sunny warm place with a little somethin' in your knapsack. 

This morning as the train pulled in I met Coleman Lighthouse and shared him some gin.  We walked up the street and turned back to my shack where I cooked up some grits and a little pork back.  Coleman talked and told me his tale of losing his women to his life on the rail.  I so graciuosly painted while he ate his fill and we walked on back-wave so long-parting ways at the tracks.  This cherished piece painted in oil on a 16x24 inch masonite panel.