The Night Queen

artwork by Mary Frances

The Night Queen

“There are no heroes.. . in life, the monsters win.”

--George R.R. Martin.

I live out of a back pack.

I am one of the last of the rail riders.

I hop the boxcars

on slow corners and steep grades.

They call me Boxcar Ben.

I swear, there are more shanty towns

and tent villages today than there ever

was in the Depression.

On warm nights, I love to climb atop

the cars, spread my red Navaho blanket

and lie on my back watching

the star show, one of the last free

moving pictures.

In my travels, I am humbled and saddened

by the huge numbers of homeless folks

I encounter. Some can be dangerous,

but most of them are just down on their luck.

My heart aches for the shivering children

with the upside down grins & hungry eyes.

I’ve been a proud boxcar bandit for 30 years.

I’ve had to fight to defend myself.

I’ve done jail time, gained weight on prison slop.

I was pretty sure that I knew everything

about hobo-hopping--but in 2010, in late July,

I was rolling steel through Louisiana.

I stopped at a homeless camp for a hot meal.

Several people warned me about the next

stretch of track. They claimed the area was

haunted by a monster they called the

Night Queen of the Railway Wastelands.

Cajuns prattle on a lot about their home-grown

monsters, so I didn’t pay much attention.

The next night I was riding the Southwest

Union Flyer, and was slicing through endless

swamp. I could smell the wet moss, bat shit, 

skunk cabbage and gators. It was around

midnight when the train slowed and stopped;

what the hell; turns out a ghostly herd

of Angus cattle were camped out on the tracks.

I sat in the open doorway with my legs dangling,

riven with alacrity, watching for railroad bulls

with clubs and hand cuffs. It was a humid,

dripping night, and there was a full moon.

Suddenly I heard branches popping

and breaking, and the brush shook. The air was

laced with the stench of rotted meat. I was

pole-axed with fear. A seven foot something

stepped out of the shadows, and stood staring

at me.

It wore an alligator head for a hat, and its fierce

face was werewolf-white, with red coals for eyes,

with long yellow canine teeth. It held a staff in

each hand that had human skulls atop them. The

tall lean body was covered with dark fur--on its

chest were two large breasts--definitely a female.

It opened its ferocious mouth and roared like

a cave bear.

I bolted to the back of the car, and scrambled up

the inside ladder. I crawled out on top the car and

peered over the edge. The Night Queen was gone,

but the slaughterhouse perfume still hung heavy

in the hot air. I sure as hell never set foot in cursed

Louisiana again. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub