On the Road – A Poem

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

 

 

About Nan Mykel

At 79, I was just about to stop keeping a journal, but that felt like accepting that growth was finished. I don't want to be finished, yet! I'm 80 now, and struggling to communicate with you, if you'll come and set awhile. P.S. My how time flies! I'm 82 now.
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