little boys with dreamcatcher eyes
stand on train platforms in the restless drizzle
as I fumble with my luggage.
old ladies, half bent, suck the life
from stale cigarettes at 10 euros
a pack. ahead, I see the
snaking of a dozen shiny train
cars. and in the deep behind, I hear a chorus of
pre-babbelian shouts:
“is this the right stop? I’m lost —
can you help? I don’t have any money.
get out of my way! I don’t understand what
you’re saying.”
“where are we going?”
every 15 or 5 or 7 so minutes, if the universe
is on time, a train labors out into the
be-drizzled anywhere, carrying some of us.
but not all. never all.
