I miss those days so warm
that even laying in bed
atop the wavy blue sheet
caused a slow pool of my
to turn my sternum into a lake
in a valley next to my heart,
and paste my uneven bangs onto
my wide, empty forehead.
Those days whose only solace comes
from an endless walk three blocks
down egg-cooking tar to the station
and hopping on a train-any train
with a climate controlled by
an anonymous god,
salvation for hundreds of Queensland children
baptized as the doors fold open.
Sitting in antarctic seats
staring through my own pupil floating in the window
onto the ever-passing suburbs
mindlessly as houses pass with time
No final destination, but to be a passenger
at the mercy of the timetable,
escaping the Island’s sun.