twelve hours later

it still buzzes deep inside my skull
with the clarity of a dream that slowly
unfolds into the waking hours
between stations and coffees and
there's always someone, isn't there?

the Thunder Carrot, the Pixie, the Triplets
of Railville come alive past midnight
there is no singing this time around
but there are spirits lifted, raised
like a glass of wine, a shot of vodka,
a splash of that cheap whiskey
while we all drink to the next stop

you told me but I didn't exactly understand
might as well have been another language
but your back cannot lie and with its eloquence
speaks about many other things beyond
those fleeting reflections on the night windows

it will all end soon enough, maybe even
never at all have we become so entangled
among the ruins of what we're looking for;
a dangling sentence, a swinging body, a quiet
moment between the cars where solitude
is the undisputed shoddy kingpin of games
not finished before our ultimate destination.