Full Carriages Trundle On

I don't have a return ticket not sure if this train is coming from somewhere or going onward. In the next seat a 'mick' relative, we converse in a grunting verse. Rough hands caked with unspoken words indicate long pauses. On the move trying to recall something familiar, a town, a stretch of passing scenery. A once fractured memory, Some kid is beating a tin toy drum I think it is me, his short pants are dark blue, they are too tight; he is going to the seaside one day. The child is annoying. A journey battles on. it whistles through the bygone: will someone meet us in loco parentis? I am an outgrown poet full of the Irish, I am a jigsaw piece for the numbed seekers of unfilled holes. This is a video game, this is a play station with play passengers getting on and leaving. Bareboned is the bodkin that grooves a map far from anywhere. Passengers stare out of my window I begin to count the eyes. I have much time to ponder, to wonder if this rattling line has an end or perhaps has been pulled up long ago by ice Mammoths?