A tremulous place of anticipation and dread,
suspicion the colours are changing, are they changing?
What is the sound of a silent train arriving?
Apparently, I’m to depart. I’ve been informed
I have a ticket. I seem to have forgotten
I was holding onto it all this time. It’s true,
I’ve been elsewhere. This is the place.
Waiting is often more than waiting
as the train arrives and takes off without you.
Wait! I’m on the train! The train is beautiful,
colourful, delicious, it’s singing, it’s alive!
Why are there flowers growing through the train?
Is this a train of thought? Is this thought
a train of flowers? Where am I?! The answer
to that question is right in front of you,
read the sign, “Waiting Room”.
That’s where you are, problem solved.
Bike Night
Twin beat of tire spokes braid night air
into set of rapids a canoe would fall upon.
Creases of energy propel me deliriously
forward, folds of force comfortable as pillows,
wells of gravity like muscles from beneath.
My legs pound the circle of bicycle pedals
through night soft as sweater, dark, brilliant,
a night when you feel buoyant, lucky
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