There are very few complexities on trains
and this one passes Crone Mountain, slow
as the cars gather momentum and the countryside
slides into blue & green & sometimes earth
tones blurring in the early fog that lifts
somewhere close to Charlottesville
We are still outside the big cities and flowers bend
to flutter in sporadic places that scatter & fade
as we bear closer north, where rivers and concrete
replace the stout wooden stations
The train turns electric and efficient, no-one
gets off to smoke & the voices hurry past
smooth southern syllables into the curt clean
containment of polished emphasis
I am riding a long train, ten hours so far & Boston
is still far enough way for me to drowse
half awake in the solitude, watching lives moving
on and off, their individual trains