On the 6:44 to Boston

It is 6:44

The train to Boston jerks forward and shakes me

As I settle into my seat

Facing rearward

The sky is cloudless, blue

Far too cold for April 18

The sun has broken free of the horizon and

Splashes itself against a scratched, dull Plexiglas window

And I squint through the glare at the rubbish

That gathers everywhere there are train tracks

Rusted cars and rimless tires

Appliances and shopping carts

Plastic shopping bags that

Caught in a locomotive’s draft

Are curled upward into the trees

Left to wave like weathered flags

Seen for a moment then

Disappearing

Into the grime and glare of a dull Plexiglas window

Lost to the speed and course of a train

And the lack of concern of a passenger who cannot see

Where he is headed

Only the fading memory of where he has been