Commute

part of the Poetry Hivemind series

Instead of commuting to and drinking coffee in the office I travel to the ping pong table in the park near my place nigh every morning. Almost as if it became another room of my apartment.

Sleep is sick. I love Sleep.

The train makes its daily way from my bed
to the sun. It's an express line, so it passes
the clouds without stopping. The people there
will have to wait on a local to get to work.
I missed it this morning and I lay in bed and wonder
what I'm going to do with this day of my life.
I think about making coffee. I think about
the swirling light on the walls from the wind and
the leaves dancing around each other. I think
that today is going to be nothing. It'll be smoke
from the train engine. It'll be wheels pounding round
and track stoically vibrating. It'll be breeze
and birds and sunshine warming all of it. All of it.