Thousands of sewing machines, tapping urgently and beckoning.
The sound of the after-midnight train i hear three blocks away.
It's laced with the tracks, pummeling too fast, willing me to wander away from here.
In my mind, I lurch ten miles a minute,
melting into the steel facade of its escape, wanderlusting and captivated.
But I know that it is more wise to be still.
I'll fasten myself to the mundane present, and take comfort in my mind that, ten miles a minute away, my destination peers through fog-burdened trees.
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