Friday, April 18, 2014

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
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


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