stations [2009]

(...click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack...)

as I lean into the yellowed glass
of this blight-creaking coach
all is dim with failing dust
and I've not seen another...

...it seems there used to be 
so many more stops
along this hallowed line
and weren't thousands of us
ill-clothed cowards 
once queued to follow it?
the destinations were certainly...

...I suppose that since
we found no mates waiting
  (to be overcome by  
our intended scents of cheap wine
or
to be swayed by 
our ridiculous club-car costumes
or
to be romanced by
the eloquent resonances of
our 90-minute mix tapes)
an agonizing possibility arises — 
  we might never have been...

...and that lost, ruinous passenger
still riding with the casket of his...

...or is it simply that
our high noses were too buried 
in borrowed books
for us to take notice 
of our stations
passing by?

(...click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack...)