Public Transport

1 September 2013

on the first train to freedom
they told me of a gaol bird singing
‘love is just a ballast to stop these ‘ere
souls cart-wheeling off into the
empty night, do-dee-doo

but on the last train out
I saw it all:
smelling the looks of lovers
who would never meet
their hidden glances
excused to be less
dead fly Milton bright
& thoughts toward action organised like
a junkyard backpacker bus
fallen into disuse
or like the errant memory of where keys
while typing love letters in the dark

too many believe in the mask of next time

& as I turned away
outside my window
I felt it all:
the flowers in the cemetery
waving in the soft anhelations
of the gods

& of life breezing by.

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