Between Stops

Not where I was, and
not where I’m headed,
I am between stops.
The train is moving.

Sometimes hot, sometimes cold,
always hard, always heavy,
never ever cross the tracks alone.
Motionless and still,
their ties and spikes
float my thoughts
and punctuate my movement.
Starting is laborious and
stops are slow, but
it all happens in a rush
between
the stops and the starts.
The window’s scenery
plays to the rhythm
of the machinery.
Clickety clack and yakity yak
disrupt my thoughts and
interrupt my plans,
because I am where I am.

The train is moving.
Not where I was, and
not where I’m headed,
I am between stops.