I often dream of trains

I breathe
the rhythm
of the Red Line
every image
in a flash of shadow.
I feel
the quickening pulse
the rush
of the tenement landscape
when you finally
let your hair down
on the approach
to Kendall Square.
I am beginning
to believe
that we will never
quite arrive
that we will always
pound and thunder
through shores
of broken glass
and forgotten cars.
I crave
the soft familiar blur.
I thirst
for the metallic flow
of the last train
out of South Station
the jaded drone
of the conductor
the restless track
that leads
to the impossiblity
of your smile.

Paul David Mena
14 September, 1996
Cambridge, MA

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