Window Seat

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.