"On a Train to Budapest"

 

I met humble once on a train to Budapest,
winding through some jagged mountains
over the rickety clackety of the cars
swaying back and forth, back and forth.

We spoke of the harmonious motion, the
steady horizontal glide, the meal service in
the dining car and what wines were good
for dinner once dinner would be served.

I laughed a little, he laughed a little
(he? Humility is a he? Or a she?
and in what multi-colored robes does
it wear (it?) to make us learned?).

Far and a ways out the window I allowed
my mind to wander, to wonder in a village
that was passed, the colors of the village,
the people who worked for their food.

A woman stood on a dusty road with a cart
full of something, perhaps water, food,
laundry, something, and her head was wrapped
to cover but not completely cover.

But the fields of cattle and other various
livestock faded to a deepening blue, an
infinite night with infinite miles of disappearing
visibility, unlimited dreams of the unseen.

I woke sometime in the morning, somewhere
between where I started and where I was headed,
somewhere conveniently placed between the two
and that is where I was at that time, that moment of time.

Wiping the sleep from my eyes and turning
to the window to lift the shade, as I had pulled it to
in the night out of force of habit, I yawned
and reached for an item of morning's consequence.

 

13 June 01