The station-master looked at me as if I were a madman.
“Schedules?” he laughs. “There are no schedules,
and the destinations are false.
You never end up where you think you are going.”
He walks away, his trim blue suit crisp and comical,
muttering, his head shaking,
“Schedules! You’d think they’d learn.”
I wait for the train.
About this poem.
Yes, you’d think we’d learn.