With his eyes closed

With his eyes closed

He could be anywhere

From Chattanooga

To Istanbul.

Constantinople.

The rhythm of the train

Lulled him

With its fraudulent comfort

Pretending to care

When it had taken the last

Of his stash to pay the fare

If only he had waited

Until payday

At the end of the week

But the band was a crock

The leader an arse

Maybe the next one would be better

Perhaps they would use his music.

His head nodded to the clickety-clack

Yackety-yack

Don’t look back.

He had travelled this way before

Knew the track

Better than he knew people.

The others in the carriage

Looked either lost or bored

Except for the woman

Wearing glasses on top of her head

Either she was unconscious or dead.

He had stood in the buffet car

For ages

Dreaming of Casablanca

The Orient Express

Velvet curtains

Shady characters

Pipe dreams and magical thinking.

If only life was as much fun

As his imagination.

He wondered what other people did

Stuck on an Intercity train for hours

As the world zipped by the window

No sooner had he spotted a landmark

Than it was gone,

Everything in retrograde.

The woman opposite

Gave a shudder

Drool rolled down her chin

Pooling on the mohair.

He had a sweater somewhere

He might have left it on

The piano stool

With the stains on his soul

Discolouring the wool

It would end up in the bin.

There is no justice for goats

He thought.

What’s so great about them anyway?

He mumbled aloud.

The woman’s eyes flickered,

As his head nodded

In unison,

Sleep had staked its claim.