Boston to New York, November 18th 2015
Flopped, fatigued against the grain and route,
We left the dark cold concrete Boston quay
In business class, our train a silver flute
Of gleaming portholes and intricacy.
We passed sad sidings and graffitied trucks,
Framed azured skies, dark edged with orange hue,
And knew this was the day’s defensive crux
When relentless night might again break through.
By creeks and coves and whiteboard harbor homes,
We crawled then spurted to impending shade
And halted briefly where no signal roams,
Saw lights expire and all ambitions fade.
At this small junction, did the engine send
Its silent signal of how careers end?