Trip to the Mountains

From the train, the only dis­tin­guish­able life
is mani­fes­ted through the unend­ing clotheslines,
and the cars left lying care­lessly and haphazardly
around the deep scars human­ity calls roads.
Through their clean wash­ing, I pry into their
back­yards, and on into their souls.
Some­where within all this must lie a pattern
not least to men­tion that of dawn day dusk
and church on sundays. Des­pite these clues,
all breath­ing bodies are on the train
by my side. Have we all wondered, at one time,
or another, if the haphaz­ard cars and white sheets
were placed there delib­er­ately to fool us
into a secur­ity of chance and lack of fate?
Strange to think, though, of all those sheets
left white and flap­ping with no-one to attend them,
through which we con­clude, illo­gic­ally, that they are
at some stage, attended.