Congestion

The knot of destinations
untangled on the station wall
suggest the limitations
of the trains.  Their tracks.
parallel rails finding
the same distance
the same direction,
were lain as long lines
in a time of aspiration
by men defending hope
and wanderlust.

The rail yard is a brain,
and ganglia are waiting to move
populations and product.
Nerves know their urgency but
sometimes
ignore it. 

In the distant metropolis
where I would like to live,
the traffic is congested.  Drivers
hoarse from their frustration,
say nothing now and now cower
behind the wheel, behind the car
that is behind the car
that is behind the car
that is behind the car
that is stalled on this December morning
when no one will be
going home
again.

But there are planes
and there are aeroports.
And there is the idea
of flight.  I might begin
this journey here
and through the clear blue sky--
or ink black night
or through a cloud that sweats
out rain and thunder--
I will, god willing, arrive
at the exact coordinates
at the exact time
my nerves require.