Blur By

The train goes in two directions,
and you are somewhere in the middle,
waiting for the train, any train,
to take you elsewhere, and maybe,
or maybe not return. That wanderlust
you never quite cured yourself of
less discriminant than it once was, content
to travel for travels’ sake,
to simply see something new
that does not care who you are
or what you can do for them,
to sit by windows and watch the world blur by
without you.

About this poem

Maybe I am tired. Maybe I am restless. At times it is hard to tell which is which.

The photograph reminds me of a train station. In reality it is a personal bowling alley at the De Nemours estate in Delaware. I have been known to choose the illusion over the reality at times.

Tom