A Novel Train Ride
I am eye-deep in a story,
a timeless place that only happens now.
The view from the train window
is as still as a mountain – I may be reading too fast.
The speed of my eyes takes time to emerge
from the pulp and print.
The tale grips until my feet fill other shoes.
A tense spy novel tugs at identity.
There’s a kid kicking,
thumping the back of my seat,
blood pressure goes into hyperdrive,
knuckles blanch
as if to grip the brake of a speeding train.
The page reveals - words beguile.
I am flying on a private jet to Sweden
while wrestling with a dilemma,
torn as I am between a hitman’s conscience
and a pragmatic professionalism.
Book in hands I must soon
parachute gently down to a platform.
The train is slowing,
people wrangle children and bags,
but not the seat-kicking kid,
he is a very bad agent
that should have listened to his mom.
Now he’s kicking the target,
a victim that’s splayed-out
on a Swedish train station.
I creep up behind him
Cyanide dart, or Karate chop?
A page turning moment for sure.
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