I took a train by and by.
Sometimes the train was a slow
one, stopping, waiting
at every small village and corner
along my way.
Sometimes a TGV, speeding through
places,
parts that
a second look,
may have had ma clé,
now gone.
A whist;
of me.
Sometimes my greatest desire was
for the
train to speed. Up. Through those
icky bits as-fast-as-pulling-a-bandaid.
Those days the engine broke. There
was a strike. Or a suicide
on the track. I sustained.
Sometimes I wanted the train to
slow, allow me time
to stop and savour petit mauve
lilacs I saw in a field;
the dark eyes of a man who seemed
my mate; or a
conversation I yearned to relish,
recall.
Those days the train was always
ahead of
Schedule, moving so swiftly what I
sought, lost.
Now my last train. The Journey’s
End I
jumped to get, a misstep.
The Express I chose, regret,
buy and bye.
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