At that point when you wanted to go,
did the brittle bracken of your brain
spare a thought to the destination?
Or maybe destination was the lure:
a traveller without wanderlust
until that travel agent snared you.
All those brochures vomited in your arms.
What option but to break out the plastic
and excavate the mouldering suitcase?
You never could turn down a trip on a train.
“Where are we going?” I’d ask, and you’d rumble:
“It doesn’t matter lad, the train knows.”
I used to think those big metal monsters
were the saddest creatures in the world
doomed always to travel their single route.
Did you think to share news of your bargain?
I could’ve been a good travelling companion.
Some nights I still think I might meet you there.