All those tiny houses,
crammed together, packed
as if they were afraid of flying.

Someday we'll live in one of those houses,
I told myself, as I watched them fly by
outside the train's window.

There was a simple romance,
an unremarkable sweetness
about believing that.

I was alone on the train -
it came from the side of the tracks
where people don't have office jobs in the city,
and I came from the side of the morning that no one likes.

I liked being alone on this train.
It meant I had time to be romantic
without having to be hopeless.

The sun was too tired to rise just yet,
sending instead a half-hearted glow
over the little sardine shelters
that scrambled past my sleepy window.

For now, I left my fear of flight unhoused,
taking trains between here and where
then and how, now and there.
Finding bits of work in between,
celebrating victories
far smaller than those little houses.

I was much too afraid to take a plane.