Writer on a Train

Familiar destination,
    different path-
Eyes open again


Low tide,
    dead tires in mud--
What gives?


Along the tracks
    rusting piles of junk--
Nobody cares.


Garbage everywhere--
    We are making
a mess of things.


Trains run through
    the poor side of town
so not to wake the rich.


From this view
    everything needs
A fresh coat of paint.


Horse in a field
   watches us pass--
where would he go?


Small white church
    shines like a beacon
in a sleepy town


Young couple under a tree,
    heads bowed in discussion--
"It's not you, it's me" perhaps?


Field of dead sunflowers--
    parchment brown,
 faded gold


Do you see what I see
    when you look out
that window?


written on the Amtrak train
from Fremont to Sacramento


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press    August 1-2, 2015