A poem is a train,
Rhythmic lyrics hug together,
passengers are words, stuck
Grippling with their reservations,
Strangers in the same space,
Stacked in their seats, neat.
Commas loiter in the aisles,
A poet, inspects, strolls the stanzas,
stamping lyrical travellers in to destinies
The train of thought heaves to a shuffling legato,
Carriages are trundling cadences,
linked by buffered themes,
Stopping, starting, sticking to the tracks,
Schwipping past an inspired station,
missing its purpose
Procrastinating leaves, every line
delays the inevitable destination,
A full stop, a pause to refuel
The writer prepares the journey,
Buys the ticket,
hopes for thrills and beauty,
A running commentary that jolts each tilt.
Gavin Turner 