Next
Stop
On the bus,
I realise it’s easy to fall
In love with the train-driver,
Knowing
adventure and adrenalin,
Speed and direction,
Knowing both it and its limitations.
We
draw all these lines around things we love,
Children in sandboxes marking territories.
Did the sandbox agree to be split?
After
rain, after sleep,
The sand will defect, seek asylum,
Form new grooves and return whole.
Will you notice?
No.
You
will return, sit
At your usual (aggregated) spot,
Play like you think it’s yours,
Drawing old lines over new sand.
It’s
easy to fall in love with the train-driver,
Knowing you will both die
If it derails.
It’s only fair.
But
not many get to fall in love with train-drivers.
Where
do I go from here?