I watch the world, from a window seat
on the Tilt Train:
The north star of the Wide Bay.
I watch the world from a window seat
and see Unit caps crown the face tats,
of parents who smack their kids,
in the crack capital of Queensland.
Out the window I see
the same kids jump train tracks
on dirt bikes and catch
like deer in the headlights
of oncoming railside crosses.
I see heads in hands,
people sitting on sidewalks
by cops dolled up in high viz.
They investigate busted up fenders
and scattered glass from windshields
on bitumen, stained two reds, and blue.
I see a glass bottle smashed
and the sun beam through pieces
like light through a magnifying glass.
The train travels on
through small Queensland towns
as their brittle grass sparks, dying trees catch,
and trails of smoke rise
and become trapped
as in a Greenhouse.
On my tray table I read
Dorothy Parker's Resume.
And by my window I see
an orange hammer, a skeleton key.
I watch the world and I see the appeal
of its emergency exits.
But I get the feeling
they're kept locked for a reason,
and that it's best just to leave them be.
I watch the world, from a window seat
on the Tilt Train:
The north star of the Wide Bay
on its way
to its terminating station.
