Down at the station I am struck
by a thought that carries
me along with it past downtown
exclamations along the order
of “Look at me!” and “Here am
I!” and into seedy boroughs
of “No way!” streets and “Who you
lookin' at?” alleys. Then the green

of “I've got mine, Jack” suburbs
flashes by on the right, with river
sucked seaward on the left, until
the little towns—so quaint, so coy—

slide past. First, “Why me, O Lord?”
then “What have I done to deserve this?”
in quick succession; then, farther north,
in dairy country, a bite-sized town called “Huh?”

For an hour I brood between “Huh?”
and “Hmmm,” where there's a longish
stop for fuel and water, and I
climb off and walk around for a while.

Back on board, I start taking
notes, jotting down this’s
and that’s about these’s and those’s.
I hear a conductor coming through

the car—voice powerful and deep—
announcing, “Next stop, Eureka!”
I snap to wakefulness, fully aware
now that I’ve had a doze—on the wrong
train, on the wrong coast, for any
sort of ultimate destination—
so at the next station, the one for Muddle
and Quandary, I grab my bags, get off, and am home.

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