Image by Tad Wychopen from Pixabay


I hear a train in the distance.
A long whistle,
exciting up close
but sad from where I’m lying.

No rumble of wheel
on tracks.
That’s for the ones riding it,
those driving it.

I just get the cry
for my passive troubles,
the sound of my solitude,
everyone else’s togetherness.

No scenery for me.
No meal in the dining car
as the miles fly backwards
under me.

And, sure as hell,
no destination.
Not when I’m slumped
on the couch,

and staring at the ceiling.
Everything’s going some place but me.
At the rate that train is leaving me behind,
I am lucky to have got this far.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages” is available through Amazon.

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