I lie in a bed of warm darkness,
hearing the wind with its errant keening,
seeking my soul as its helpmate.
The wind bows before the shrillness
of the whistle, punctuating the staccato
of metal wheel on metal rails, and
I am inside a boxed shape, rocking gently
to motion in moonlight, the wind racing
to keep pace as it washes the smells
of animals, hay, engine oil, unwashed bodies,
the bouquet I must carry to travel free,
unknown destination of no consequence.
The faint light passes over my hands;
my fingernails remain clean.
This poem is submitted to the “trains” prompt at dVerse Poets. To see more poems, please visit the site.