Beside my bed I keep a little book
in which I jot down the details of
those trains of thought which
travel nightly the subconscious network.
Occasionally it will be the midnight express
screaming through nightmare tunnels
(its headlight mimicking hope)
But more often it is a
benign milk train
with it's churned up cargo of memories
at the village halts that
line my past.
My nights spent
supine upon an embankment of pillow
marveling at their locomotion
but no longer curious
about their destination.