T

A trip like this is not best done alone;
The sights I see all very out to be shared
Whether because their beauty has outshone
The best that expectation could have dared
Or merely from desire to express
To other ears the silliness observed
It hardly matters. Neither is the less
Because the other is, and both have served
To make me wish my love were here with me;
And yet not so, for why would I impose
The journey on her? Better just to be
Myself, in day-old stubble, stink, and clothes.
The sleepless rumble of the midnight train
Is pleasure yes, but also mixed with strain.