Lonely Train
Sat, on a train,
I watch my reflection in the glass.
Because that’s what everybody does
in a train poem.
Unless they’re looking at the girl
in the opposite seat.
They do that to wonder where she’s going
and ponder on how they’ll never see her again.
She’s always reading a book.
My reflection disappears
because it’s broad daylight.
There is no girl either. Nor book.
So, because I’m in a train poem I should
stare out at the people and their patios,
and their plastic chairs and pointless lives.
But we’re in open country.
Of course I could see a girl.
Perhaps the one who isn’t on my train and therefore not in my poem.
She’s the train poem person who is in her upstairs window
and I’m supposed to ponder on how I’ll never see her again.
Which is a pain
because in train poems she’s usually naked.
Missing all these essential railway poem people and plots
I stare pointlessly out
with no reflection. Except I reflect on
my astonishment at the speed
of the hurtling bird
keeping pace with my rolling carriage.
I smile. Pointlessly, because no wry reflected image smiles back.
I feel an extra sadness
as I realise that
the bird’s not there either.
It’s a mark on the window.
Pete Goodrum is a Norwich based freelance writer and broadcaster. A committee member of Cafe Writers, Pete writes for magazines, a range of commercial clients and has four best selling books of local history to his name. He broadcasts on radio and tv.