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The Train of Thought Dispatch
In every waking state, my head is filled by trains
that run a locomotive's rig across my gathered consciousness.
I speak not on their conduction nor of their wasted coal,
but show my fair and measured kindness by dealing with their whistles.
They often crash and seamlessly assemble into piles
that slowly, surely turn ascending towards their station's sky.
When one finds its destination coming at high speeds,
it find the brakes or tries at least, and prays for slow conclusion.
Some have lived upon round wheels of rust for years and ages;
smoking stacks and appendages made of dwelling iron -
while some have found the barrel gun as a perfect place to settle
just before the new day's sun will use them as its bullet.
And I guess I'm just the dispatcher to this train yard of the mind,
willing just to settle for arrivals and departures.
I'm loose and 'lax with schedules, moreso than what's best,
but in the end I find delight in the sights and sounds and motion.
I'll wear my cap and place a hand upon the luncheon bell,
calling out mentalities to carry on the dusty speakers.
For when we've kept a goodish deadline on our shipping wells,
we'll know to buy a beer and laugh and congratulate ourselves.
