Word after word: toy trains of words
that go around and around
have carried me. Shall I wave
to the painted metal people
I created and placed just so?
Each fixed smile, each plastic facade,
becomes a landmark, reassurance
for the secret passenger,
the hobo who seeks empty boxcars;
I could sleep here forever, lulled
by the songs that I have woven
of a transformer’s muted hum.
Word after word: the shiny stock
that should be bound for distant towns
encompasses my days’ horizons;
I no longer count the passing.
Stephen Brooke ©2005