Fog horns and train whistles fill the night.
Their calls signal departure dreams that cancel
nesting instincts wrapped in homespun schemes.
Soft feather falls and quiet fails
to quell those yearning travel needs.
Faint images dissolve to exotic scenes
conjured from celluloid fantasies.
Drifting between the sea of sheets
and the ocean breeze fog, you're blown
into Shanghai or rounding Africa's Cape.
Those bacon breakfast smells submerge
in sleep as a market in Algiers, when
shadows shift and a dark station, seen as
black and shiny points, emerges from the mist.
Above the rail tracks, a ladder entices you
to the wagon-lit where whistles blare.
You're east outside a wayside gare
where clocks appear out of nowhere
and the clatter gets faster as
tunnels give way to mottled light
a piercing shrill scream forces today
to wake to the sameness of yesterday
(c) Gay Reiser Cannon * 2011