“The Train” by Richard Jones

We’re all on the train
to oblivion, so let’s
ride in the bar car
 
or take a high seat
in the observation car
and count the small towns
 
or simply enjoy
the music of wheels rolling
underneath us all,
 
the comforting sound
of the tracks that point one was
the sudden darkness
 
of tunnels through hills
and then the strong light that comes
as we drowse and doze
 
or turn the pages
of a novel we’re anxious
to finish reading
 
before we arrive,
engine slowing to a stop,
at the terminal
 
where we all depart,
end of the line, home sweet home,
stepping off the train
 
and now carrying
nothing in our hands, no bags,
only our brief lives
 
like an old black coat
we throw over our shoulders
in case it gets cold.

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