The Commute

The Commute

By Rey Spadoni

It occurred to me

In a pipe that brings me from here to there on every day, five in a row, week to week to week

And on the rails we stop and start the same number and places in the here to there with a clack a clack that cuddles and rocks me to sleep

It matters not whether I face ahead or back or if I see outside a pipe or even if at all for we will advance then retreat according to those rails again and again and it matters not

It occurred to me

That every part of me could do that in every way on every day and I would advance and retreat the same which like a pendulum marks little more than time

And it seemed that if I missed the swing of the arm one time and stepped from the rails that I might advance more then retreat, or maybe the opposite, but whether I face ahead or back and whether I see outside or even if at all would matter now

Because I would live and mark something else and more, so that I might see and hear above the clack a clack for what else there may be, retreat as it could and advance as it might

It occurred to me

In a pipe from here to there

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