With a great silent sound
as station after station passes
a woman in a rose-covered satin shawl
gingerly rests her head against the glass

the papers that will bring her home here
in a backpack hugged desperately to her
the beaded bracelet from her daughter
slipping down her waning wrist

with fearless eyes and steely jaw
she slows her pulse to just over normal
the black columns holding tonnes of city
whipping past her rattling window

clickety-clack
clickety-clack
clickety-clack

the tired train track
beats like a weary old heart.

If I saw you on the same train
stranger as you'd have been
I might wonder your name

if I glanced your way
and you caught me
I'd die in my tracks

and if you sat next to me
without a word or a smile
I'm sure I'd never forget you.

Since we last were here
the chairs have greyed with age

they, like us, were once a gentle blue
now they lay aching in the pre-show

the walls quake with the noise of decades
and the air is stained with concession salt

like living memories that were never ours
dissolving in the flicker of the picture

we remember so many first dates
and missed childhood kisses

that we forget the film
is even playing.

The rain drapes the windshield in sheets
and the radio doesn't reach any stations

cold integrity darkens the interior
of Alex's rusty crimson Camaro

it's never this quiet on the highway
sliding between light and lightning

laid bare by a flash across the sky
naked at the sound of thunder

what use is running away
if all you can do is drive.

Today
I took
a new
way home

and I'll
never
give it
back.