by Roger Singer
The train lunged in
and out of order. Heads swayed
like displaced seaweed mocking
gravity. The stars and moon remained
in place. Thick metal wheels turn
with conviction. There is no shame
for those asleep, leaning onto windows,
newspapers for pillows. The miles create
a low hum. The engine possesses a pure heart.
White smoke rains upward. Surrounding
breezes are pushed aside; weight has
privilege. Nameless roads pass by
within a blur like uninvited relatives.
Darkness blocks the view. The engine
scowls forward. Vanity is a boastful drunk.