Alexa Laing-Moore
train home sickness
train home sickness
the train home
the trains I dream of, to carry me home,
always screech to a stop in
the most unlikely of places: behind the 7-11,
the center of your bedroom.
and the conductor, with his white dog,
never charges me a fare, or offers a word.
he only raises his eyebrow when I board
with an antique suitcase and a snake
trapped in some Tupperware.
a snake I’m bringing for you.
how oft’ I’ve dreamed of coming home,
of mountain vistas we viewed from
your car’s front seat.