Trestles to Nowhere

Remnants of our railroad past. The iron horse splendor of days gone by, when our nation and our city had factories that exported goods, a blue collar middle class that could work for a better future for their children, and trains that carried materials to make those good and then took those goods so merchants could bring them to market. The trestles are all that are left, in the shadows of the turnpike, the edge of the neighborhood where the tall grass grows. The teenagers hang out there now, no cops or parents or dreams to bother them, only trestles to nowhere