My Stop

Thirty years ago, I paced the floor inside
The railroad station, ticket, my MA, in
Hand. The big clock overhead was
Racing. One last train was due to come,
And I knew that I had to catch it.
Otherwise, I'd never get away from
What I'd come to know: an endless
Line of low-wage jobs. I'd been a
Printer, been the guy who drops the
Paper at your door. I'd driven cabs,
And unpacked pallets, peddled books
And women's clothes. I'd this one
Chance to be delivered to a cushy
Chair with wheels, a desk, a place
Within the circle of the suited privileged,
Trading wisecracks in the hall. I
Caught that train and found my
Chair. I wrote reports and made
Some decent money. Then the music
Came. It grew so loud I couldn't hear.
I stood, unsteady, jumped the train,
And landed, banged up, in this thicket
Where I've wandered all these years.
I won't say that I'm happy here. I'm
Not. Still, I don't miss the train. I miss
The money, I suppose, but not the ride.
I can't say why. Was it the music which
Convinced me I was moving toward
A place I wasn't meant to go?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 60 times
Written on 2016-02-23 at 14:21

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