I read a book
on a night-express train,
took the lace thread marker
between the fingers, as story
spread, and engine sped
ever onwards to
an all embracing epilogue.
Condensation formed
against the windows,
opaque as the blurred reality
and glance speed-reading of eyes
in the seats opposite.
Chapters passed,
VI, VII, VIII, IX, and X,
to be stationed and derailed,
platforms hitched by the wayside,
baring elusive garter glimpses.
The turns from the wheels,
moved the pages
with rhythmic pulse beating,
and reclining back into seat,
gaslights saucily flickered upon
scarlet velvet coats, feather hats,
and elegant, handwritten,
dangling baggage labels
which in turn became,
unbuttoned, open red corsets,
sultry, tickling kisses and
secret valentine messages;
or so I literary imagined.
This was truly, the age of steam.
