Travel

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I know each sound better than the noise of my footsteps
The slow bell clanging as the train glides into the station
The wheezing hiss as motion stops, doors gape open
The creaking, sqeaky, as trees hurtle by
the window in snatches of blurry green
the barely distinguishable condictors voice, automated cadence,
declaring, “Sunnyvale, arriving, Sunnyvale”
the unzipping of bags and quiet page turning
of my fellow passengers avoiding each other’s gaze
the roaring whir as the bullet train barrels past
with frightening speed
all these I know, and the sights:
each stop, never felt under my shoe, well-worn by my eyes
the young professionals with their shoulder bags
orange-clad and boisterous fans on their way to the game
the peaceful empty seats, standing at attention
and landscapes, blurred, as we tear through
the ticket, always the same, as the ravenous machine vomits it ,
having swallowed my coins with abandon
these I see each day, and feel
the anxiety of missing your train, stop as it
all revolves on a timetable where you are irrelevant
the serenity of your own smooth seat
the brief panic/joy of realization that you could go anywhere, anonymous
that odd experience of being a stranger amongst strangers
and that endless motion, always shifting relentlessly to new and different places,
in a straight line, always moving
forward





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