Golden Line

A blue ink smudge on heavy cream stock
The screen door banging against the brick
Five red lines typed across the page
The valley stretches past the rusty water lock
My thumb feels the stamp pressed hard and thick

Now the gravel road turns into gold
And the morning whistle blows out across the plain
Got the golden line I was meant to hold
Nothing left behind but the summer rain

Yellow formica cracked by the stove
A leather suitcase lying on the rug
The kettle whistling on the front right eye
The morning freight rolling down the grove
I keep the folded envelope tucked tight and snug

Now the gravel road turns into gold
And the morning whistle blows out across the plain
Got the golden line I was meant to hold
Nothing left behind but the summer rain

Two worn pennies in my denim vest
Telegraph wires humming in the heat
The front porch steps give a wooden moan
My shadow stretches all the way out west
New dust rising beneath my feet

Now the gravel road turns into gold
And the morning whistle blows out across the plain
Got the golden line I was meant to hold
Nothing left behind but the summer rain

Iron latch clicks shut on the gate
A white sheet drying out in the sun
Clear open country waiting straight ahead
The winning letter and a running head start