With some words about being
tired,
Hot pangs as waves of thought
ebb and emerge from my
Toiled shell station
Embarking on a journey
Without checking the weather
or taking a coat.
The last passengers of thought for the day
Who wish to travel further than the
Jar-like confides of my skull,
Making some mark on the outside world,
Choosing a path,
and cutting their teeth,
Commute the first and final time
to their new jobs where they will labour
without complaint in the faint echo
of morning.
Hardly a hustle and bustle but more,
Like a slow gathering on the move.
And happy to be moving,
enjoying the view,
and the rocking motion of the train,
of thought.
© Cosmic 2010
