HANGING ON IN THE TRAIN
A boy wets his bed, and cries. Deeply fearful,
Slumbers fitfully, little noises, whimpering,
Our world is his in near consciousness;
He cries for a handle in his crowded train.
Our world is as his, not the whole night through,
for ours is jagged, moonlit, an adult world.
But at times we are caught, when we also need
more than does he, a handle for our crowded train.
We hate, we fear, a hundred intrusions.
The handles are many, and we use them all,
Speed, new age, ten dozen gods.. from the
mystics of the east to fundamentalism in the west.
We try them all, as with that boy in the bed,
We are always with hope to find the way
to protect and sooth him; as is with us,
so that we know our path; where we belong.
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