I wonder where she’s going?
With her Taiwan airline tags and western trainers
staring out the train with suitcases of pain
I wonder where she’s coming from?
I used to sit on trains alone a lot
hoping for notice, for someone to wonder
at my destination, my accumulation
light burns orange then russet as dappled
trees bow their burned heads to the wind
this train passes the station for my mother
a ghost in my head winding loss
like web through a recalcitrant loom
invalidation is my golden ticket Charlie
I think of the post-sickness book that’s coming out
and my aunt saying she doesn’t read poetry
which isn’t the point when you support someone
I remember the old dreams set against the new
survival and endurance taking center stage
the toilets are better on trains these days
food just the same, flat and plain like my
chest when I forget to breathe deep and live
there are ancestors sitting on top of my bones
and liars in my pockets alongside pressed river flowers
I think of you and I smile briefly
luminescent in your radiance for a moment
that’s what you are; pure sunlight far from here
the train pulls into another station
I recall being young and standing all the way
my life strapped to me like an instrument
if you listen carefully, the past and present
sing vignettes over cold water and high bridges
like thwarted lovers will
never make their way back
to where they once were
I’m glad I don’t feel old yet
though pain is a pursuer, cutting deep into tenderized fabric
until we wear wrinkles and armor, blowing raspberries
it’s been so long since I was held, tight and too warm
against another fast beating tremulous heart
I see a brown hare in the tall saffron, and the edge
of a grey foxes tail
I wonder why he’s hunting on a mid-Summer’s day?
I wonder at the feeling of hunger and its diminishment
I turn back to my book and then, the feel of lulling laziness
envelopes me in light and I am flying against the train’s metal
whistling my own brew of grief and joy
like a forgotten kettle with just
enough water left to sing
I haven’t traveled, or even commuted, by train in a very, very long time, but you take me back to that in between state of observation, daydream, pondering, and meditation the train can bring. And then, I remember a verse from “The City of New Orleans” by Arlo Guthrie:
“Dealin’ card games with the old men in the club car
Penny a point ain’t no one keepin’ score
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
Feel the wheels rumblin’ ‘neath the floor
And the sons of pullman porters
And the sons of engineers
Ride their father’s magic carpets made of steel
Mothers with their babes asleep
Are rockin’ to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel”
“With just enough water left to sing”— perfect closing line
Stunning.
A beautifully moving musing poem with wonderful imagery, especially the last three lines
Beautiful share. Captivating.
“My life strapped to me like an instrument” is such a great line; it sets up the finale perfectly… I feel like trains are a medium. Like music, train travel creates its own time and everything is seen through this lens of nostalgia and anticipation. It’s hard for anything to stick to you when you’re passing through space in a time machine.