The Only Proof

Images flash by your window.
Another journey, theoretically
from here to there,
marks on a map,
as if the destination mattered,
as if the place you left, mattered.

The miles matter,
beautiful and vile,
they define the journey
and you ignore them
at your own peril,
the only proof really,
that you are alive.

About this poem

I took the train from Virginia to Vermont earlier this week, and my mind seems to have become one big journey metaphor.

Tom