I sometimes imagine I’m on a train, just me and a ragged suitcase
That I toss up on the luggage rack as I find an empty place
I open a book across my lap, there in my window seat
But as soon as the cabin lurches and bumps, I quit pretending to read
I press my face to the window pane, dim with ash and smoothest glass
I watch the tree and bushes, hills and valleys all slide past
At every piercing whistle shriek, I wonder if this is my stop
And whenever the brakes they grind and squeak, I wonder if I should get off.
We roll on and over canyons, rivers, laughter, echoes, tears
Night falls and there go moon and stars, and planets, hopes, and fears
All caught in streaks with days and dreams and months and miles and years
On we roll, with my cheek to the window pane, as smooth as any ice
And I don’t know where I’m going, but I hope the weather’s nice.