Well now, dear reader of the rails, let me tell ya what the bean cans didn’t foresee today. I was mindin’ my own soul business, sittin’ under the full Scorpio moon by a trash fire just west o’ the Montgomery railyard, when a gust of glitter swept through the holler.
Out the mist came a sight so divine, I thought I’d accidentally scryed into the Can of Pisces too long—six struttin’ figures in rhinestoned boots, feathered coats, and more attitude than a hungry raccoon in a sardine factory. They called themselves The Lady Locomotions, a band of roaming drag queens who play “hot jazz”—and lemme tell ya, it was blazin’.
The saxophone sang like a midnight train, and the trumpet wailed like a banshee in stilettos. Miss Diesel Divine, the leader, handed me a tambourine and said, “You got rhythm in your bones, old man. Don’t make us glam you up for nothing.”
So there I was, tambourine in hand, cloaked in a sparkly shawl they threw over me like prophecy, stompin’ rhythm by the fire as the Scorpio moon looked on in scandalized silence. Jasper the raccoon tapped along with his little paws. Even Blaze the one-eyed possum curled up beside a makeshift bass drum like he was born into the cabaret.
We played deep into the night. Between sets, they read tarot from sequined decks, painted each other’s faces with campfire soot and beetroot, and declared the railyard a temporary queer sanctuary—“The Glamor Hollow.”
By dawn, they vanished like steam off a morning track, leaving behind nothing but glitter footprints, a half bottle of rosewater gin, and the lingering sound of a jazzy version of “Midnight Train to Georgia” echoing in my soul.
And the cans? Oh, the cans are hummin’ differently today. Each one’s got a note of brass in its bottom. I reckon the stars themselves took notice.
Stay wild and wonderin’,
—Hobo Harry 🚂✨
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