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| Image / Laura Meinhardt |
The Sleeper Train
No matter the scant sips of liquid
I allow myself in the hours before,
the nocturia of my age still intrudes
on my already fitful sleep.
Silently, I pull on my sneakers,
slip between the curtains
of the sleeping compartment.
The unlit aisle of this swaying
second-class train is a minefield
of stray shoes, empty water bottles,
and lost pillows. But my destination,
when I finally reach it, is relatively clean
and, rare for India, has toilet paper.
Halfway back down the car,
I realize I am lost.
The sudden light from a mobile phone
two curtains ahead is followed
by a woman’s whisper. Here, ji.
The middle-aged Punjabi woman
who shares my four-berth compartment
with her husband and brother
will light my way twice more before dawn.
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| Mary Kipps |
Mary Kipps enjoys composing in traditional forms as well as in free verse. A former Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared regularly in journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005.
Excellent writing, really enjoyed this piece
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