by John Grey
I hope the people who populate this town
never speed by it in a train.
For then they’ll see how brief it is –
a departure masquerading as an arrival.
They’ll suddenly realize that, all these years,
they’ve been living in a blur,
a fuzzy siding, distorted buildings,
some shapes, an eye-blink worth of road.
There’d be no way of telling it
from the last unnamed village
or the anonymous burg
somewhere in the distance.
The train has no use for people
who are living where they do.
It cares only for its passengers.
It can’t imagine they’d be you.
About the Author:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.