I Sleep on Trains

I sleep on trains.

I'd like to stay awake to see trapped commuters, backyard swing sets, shirtless fat men on plastic lawn chairs, overgrown sidings, graffiti walls, spooked pronghorn herds rushing away in waves over a prairie sea, wild-bent cypress clinging to improbable perches: all the world.

Instead, the even click-kick-clack pulls my chin down gently and gravity tugs the novel I meant to read from my loosening hands. I dream of stars, of walking naked among nebulae, and stirring galaxies with my hands.

I wake in time for supper in the dining car: cocktails and time to watch the dusk slide in and the last orange light turn the silver cars to molten gold.