Thursday, April 26, 2012

Metaphor

The train, it bumps along the tracks.  The wires, their sinister outlines against the starless sky, swing in the rain, in the wind, their connections to the city, to electricity, to the train itself, a mystery.  It is early, too early to be sipping ginger ale from a can, but you are awake, your elbow painfully lodged on the ashtray of the armrest, your cheek against the cold window-glass.  Outside, there is scenery, but what is it?  Are those trees?  Houses, with children in pilly pajamas humming softly in their sleep?  The important thing is that the train is moving, that you are getting somewhere.  Any minute, arousing you from your sleeplessness, there may be terrorists, engine explosions, the heat and light of a fiery crash, but for now you are helplessly traveling, helplessly uncomfortable, helplessly heading into miles and miles of rain and bumps and unknown.

1 comment:

sweetney said...

Sigh. Yeah. (But beautifully put, as always.) xo

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