That night I slept on the train

That night I fell asleep with my face
pressed against the window and rocked
back and forth with the train from the center

of the city, down near the core, until
I woke on the outskirts as the cars’
wheels screeched over poorly oiled
tracks. That night was just like

my story, my every story. I always
stay too long. I stay until it is
a bother to leave. I stay until
I am in the wrong city, I am the last
at the party, I am screaming at myself.

That night, I got off at the next stop
only to find that there would be no train
to take me back to the center
until the sun rose again. I slept

on the bench, underneath an awning
until the cops poked me like a bum,
and I was a bum that night without a home.

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Filed under Musings, poetry

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