Going Places
You reach up and press
your own personal flashlight.
Your feet kick your bag from underneath the seat
and you reach down, grabbing the book sticking out of it.
But the narrative escapes you. Next to you, a
large sleeve with a thick arm inside
—thick, like a boa constrictor—flinches.
You inch closer to the window,
until your forehead is cold
and your eyes can see past the nighttime glare.
Outside, streetlights go by like comets on the
highway. The interstates are veins with cells trucking through,
going back to start, eventually.
You try to wriggle out of your winter jacket,
but it is impossible not to disturb the sleeping snake.
You slide your arm out of its pillowy protector to hug your chest.
Now you are smaller, and can inch closer to the cold silver frame and glass pane.
You shift, wrapping your arms in a cross.
You lie back, balancing your ear on the gray headrest
and nose on the pane. Your breath makes a canvas for finger pictures—
sail boats and lightning bolts. There is no music playing,
but the rhythms are hypnotizing.
A red high-heel boot taps; you see it through the crack, about
three seats up. And behind you,
the pages of a book flip like a clock.
In and out, up and down, the straw perfumed nest in front of you rises and falls.
The inside is still and dark, a quiet hum that carries thoughts away.
The outside is a tunnel of silent lights.
You and the calm, rhythmic journey, traveling in the dark with the nameless,
going places.
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