Sounds carry. Tucked asleep into my first berth,
I have no ticket to ride, no known destination.
Black-capped conductors, uniformed and faceless,
pass silently all night down darkened aisles.
The gentle jostling of the carrier and its faraway
howling are fast becoming deja vus.
Baby has a mouse in her mouth, but leave it.
She may need the protein.
Sprouting myelin sheaths encoding both
memories of dreams and dreams of memories
pulse in concatenation with the tempo
of the great clickety clacking conveyor.
Faces of inaccessible passengers
flash past on other lines, here and near, then gone.
Zhivago futilely bangs on the window
for Lara’s attention, then terminal separation.
Nan Mykel 9-7-09