Sometimes, but rarely these days, I am on the train from Westport to the city and I watch the post glacial granite suburbs blur by in a tangle of metal and wires and cables and all I hear is the repeating clang of the train sparking along the tracks it travels every day.
The train, its a slave to its job, just like everyone up there. It travels the same path every day, never deviates . . . does the train dream of a faulty switch that would send it somewhere other than Grand Central's belly? It must, late at night, when its still, and the tickets have all been swept away, and it lays there like a man unable to sleep, with frost settling on its roof, dreaming of winding through yellow prairies so deserted that the only thing that makes the grasses dance is the visitation from the train itself. In the dream, the train's windows are open and it carries travelers, who touch each other softly, fall asleep with shoulders against shoulders, and occasionally wake to kiss and check the time.