AND THE MAN
He always feared tunnels.
And the Alps were pockmarked with
those horrible holes.
The locomotive barely had a chance
to bask in the Austrian sunshine
when it was dragged back
into the darkness.
The other passengers didn't seem to mind.
They read their books, their newspapers.
They ate their meals at leisurely pace
in the dining car.
He wasn't claustrophobic exactly.
But he hated that feeling
of the world being
suddenly snatched away.
And, if there was no world,
then what exactly was he living in.
Speeding through those mountains,
reality was lost.
Imagination took over.
But it was reluctant to rule.
Where am I?
What am I doing here?
The questions didn't dissipate
even in the light.
Or when they pulled into a station.
A sign said "You're In Eissenwart."
He stared at it for some time
but he still wasn't convinced.
John Grey is an Australian poet, U.S.
resident. Recently published in New
Plains Review, Stillwater Review
and Big Muddy Review, with work
upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia
College Literary Review, and Spoon River Poetry Review.