From the train, the only distinguishable life
is manifested through the unending clotheslines,
and the cars left lying carelessly and haphazardly
around the deep scars humanity calls roads.
Through their clean washing, I pry into their
backyards, and on into their souls.
Somewhere within all this must lie a pattern
not least to mention that of dawn day dusk
and church on sundays. Despite these clues,
all breathing bodies are on the train
by my side. Have we all wondered, at one time,
or another, if the haphazard cars and white sheets
were placed there deliberately to fool us
into a security of chance and lack of fate?
Strange to think, though, of all those sheets
left white and flapping with no-one to attend them,
through which we conclude, illogically, that they are
at some stage, attended.