Rambling Fever

I hear the sound of whistles,
And feel the breath of steam.
Train wheels clash the rails
And now I’m homeward free.

Houses pass my vision,
A neighborhood to be,
And I find myself quite thankful
That only boxcars are for me.

Bedded down on straw,
My life within a bag,
I’ve got to push onward
Lest troubles take me when I lag.

My blood, it bubbles roaming,
The crimson asphalt in my veins.
It compels me to go onward,
And be unsatisfied should I refrain.

The road, it calls me weary,
It calls me when I’m dreaming.
It calls me when I’m happy,
And it calls me on most any feeling.

To deny it would be a sin,
To ignore it would be crazy.
To stay too long in one place,
Would make me get quite lazy.

My feet, of their own accord,
Speed to dash up the highway.
My finger, of my own accord,
Sticks out to ask, “Are you heading my way?”

I walk these roads, ride rails when able,
Yet deep within my bones I feel
Them grow more tired with every fall,
Then do I have trouble keeping to my keel.

You see, still the fever takes me,
But perhaps I’m getting well.
It tells me: closer to home you’re getting,
But further down the road it is still.