Strange Thought

What was the point of the thrifty compass?
He spun in the northern tiers
directionlessly faithful, focused
or was it distraction that bred the cause,
a failed thought that derailed at high speed
a poor driver, a poor train,
of indian construction, or difficult terrain.
One that stalled when over its speed limit.

But we were always delayed
the trains at coventry were always late
and standing in the open cold talking about life
we would speak of photographs
of making memories of forgotten things
and knowing, if we looked hard enough
we stood a chance of remembering.

There was always the big city
The signboards that changed at every quarter hour
telling of delays,
and as you walked past frustrated faces
or acquaintances in the hundreds
as you walked past the station
towards the mall, the church, the row of shops
as lamplight pooled our gaze at stunted spires
as the columns rose and crammed and slid by
you felt that this was all he had, and you were all he needed.

***