In which “yesterday” is a 6-hour movie

And the train is calling,
drawling, snaking
like off the end of a cigarette.
It feels like yesterday is still caught
on the end of the last car,
because I know the train left last night
but now it’s in a new town.
I think this means a day
can become whatever it wants.
The train is speeding fresh out of a gun barrel,
like it has something to fill.
I’m not sure the passengers know the day
or the time, but I’m sure they realize
that time exists.
They’re potting their heads and
dropping them into their laps
because the ends of their book pages
have gotten too brittle during the wait.
They’re glueing their hands to the windows
to touch the day that’s edging past them.
One of them knows they won’t get off
until they’ve reached their destination
more times than they can count.
I’m still thinking about yesterday.

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