A glimpse of red brick boxes lined along the railway track,

where the people stop and watch us scurry by;

an excerpt from a scene in some suburban paperback

like a stroboscopic snapshot of their lives.

 

A transient impression of their washing on a line,

hanging frozen in that instant that we pass,

reflected in the rhythm of the high hypnotic whine

through the carriage window’s bug-blotched safety glass.

 

I wonder if they see us as we’re speeding on our way,

or perhaps we’re just a transitory ghost,

anonymously racing at the same time every day

through the countryside towards some distant coast.

 

And if we stopped to speak with them would they have worries too,

just like those of us who sit here on this train,

now destined for a breakdown leaving nothing else to do

but to turn around and travel home again.