The train rumbles through
and I shift in my seat.

Could I jump on and
ride right on into tomorrow?

Could I could be hobo material –
with red handkerchief
knotted to rough stick
carrying my belongings?

The train rumbles through
and I shift in my seat.

I feel that rumble
and it feels native, instinctual –
ancestral.

The voices of other word gypsies
scream to me in train whistles
and I can’t translate them quickly enough.

The train rumbles through
and I shift in my seat.

And all the while the boxcar artists,
the word junkies hopping trains,
they give me hope.
Hope in the rumbles
and hope in the whistles.

They tell me
that I am, in fact, on my way.

My own unique way.