The long walk to the train

The long walk to the train

In small-town America, every three months I awake
to my fiery clock alarm. The hot rhythmic squeals an
auditory beating on my pounding head, hours removed
from the mental punishment of make-or-break exams.

A jump off the top bunk of my wooden bunkbed
always seems the quietest in these cold mornings
I pick up the bag I packed half-asleep, loose wires
and cords tumbling out, silent white rattlesnakes.

My mind and feet run in a deadened unison
both too tired to resist the other's commands.
And slowly my speed increases to the pace of
fast heartbeat, filled with sheer inexhaustible joy.

Always testing the dangers of a later time
the regimented life continues past my arrival,
My white reeboks click a rock tempo into the
ground of red brick past the station doors.

I run through the procedures of paying and taking
those useless stubs of paper. Finally I am allowed
to sit down and reflect for a few precious moments
my mind is blank with weary resistance.

The soft whistle increases its soft sound to mark
the train's slow movement towards. Suddenly
my mind jumps to one sunny day when I
first exited train doors to live life anew.

It wasn't to be. Many times 'til now I wish it
might have been "that one", but it wasn't.
And now I'm sitting here with a few more ticks
of the clock, and waiting for the chance to leave.


Note: I dislike what I wrote here but I think it does to a degree capture my intent; to write a poem about the walk to the train. There is something always magical about early morning walks to a train station from one temporary home to the next. The beginning stanza and end of this poem leave something to be desired though.