Maybe I should have written mystery novels.
People read them on trains.
The routine's as repeatable
as the schedules in their pocket.
Gruesome crime on Monday
and by Friday they know who done it.

Whoever reads poetry on a train.
The rugged riffs of passion
don't go kindly
with the uniform
click clack of railway lines.
Talk about
travel sickness for the heart.

And how many times
have you and I
confused the sequence of events.
Sure poetry's a mystery.
But it begins with who done it.
Ends with the gruesome crime.
And not always in that order.