The last train holds seats
for strangers. Yesterday’s newspapers
catch at the ankles of the sleep
and possessed. The rhythm of steel
wheels creaks loudly into the corners,
alarming no one. Sinners pray for home.
Saints sleep past their stop.
Passing city lights reflect in a moment of blur,
revealing sad eyes and lonely streets;
the next town looks the same.
The train holds no favorites.
Pay the fare, ride to the end.
Roger Singer 