HONEYMOON BY TRAIN
The seat’s been folded down into a bed
I select blue pajamas.
You choose the thin white nightgown
that sparkles like fireflies
from the passing house-lights.
The locomotive’s hitting almost sixty
on this straightaway.
We breathe to its beat,
sway to its rocking.
Towns glance up
as we speed by.
Forests flutter at the fringes,
sink back into their depths.
My attention floats
between scenery and you.
Fast food restaurant, the tremor
of your skin like air on the cusp of winter,
used car lot, rich hazel eyes,
a glittery lake, the spill of hair on shoulders.
Tracks blur beside our car
but those aren’t our tracks.
Your head drops to my shoulder.
The train whistles twilight’s end.
The lights of one more town
festoon the spreading shadow.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.