Travel by Train
It has been so long. So fast.
Images blur the windows in the early morning.
A glimpse, a flicker to grab your interest
and then it is gone. Towns. Factories.
Stairs to….. you know not where.
It is already gone. The whole ride a tease.
You were made for slower travel,
to see things in depth,
never trusting the flicker of them,
with the ability to stop and see the details,
the grain of the wood and the nails and pegs
that hold things together, or the rot
teetering on the edge of coming undone.
You wonder how much you missed in faster times,
what you lost in the journey, in the blur
of airplanes and hotels and what city is this today.
A lot. You are sure of it.
But you do not fret. You have become poor
at self recrimination. It is a fruitless task
full of weight and chains. Somewhere between
the self loathing and the blur of travel
is the life you lead now, journeys made
at a speed that allows you to see the landscape
and seasons change before your eyes.
About this poem
I have come to a place where I think more is lost in the rush than gained.