Birth was and gave fuel;
Childhood transit.
The mob at the interchange
Fought, hurt, stole, ran,
A girl deported, escorted by invisible arms.

A ticket and she was off,
One of many maiden voyages.
The mob bade her farewell,
Waving admiringly,
A baby wailed
In perfect synchronicity with bells and gibberish.

It is night;
The black sky glows with neon nothingness.
A woman, round, refined, sips chamomile tea,
Her husband reading the papers.
Faint amber light envelopes them wearily.

Fifty one minutes past six in the morning
The train is one cabin short.
Papers scream outrage,
Newscasters express puzzlement,
The mob prays.

The missing cabin shoots onwards,
Shrouded by black in the noon sunlight.
It races to its destination,
Pathetic and small in the horizon,
The woman sips tea,
And her husband reads the papers.
A baby wails
In perfect synchronicity with the shriek of the train's wheels.