He’s on a train to nowhere
Looking out at packaged lives
Flashing by him in an instant
A motion-blur suburbia
Bins lined up like soldiers
Waiting for inspection
Long grass outside the fence
Inside is lawn perfection
And while the houses change
From Queenslander to town house
The stations look alike to him
From any side of the tracks
They may be different-looking
Old houses, jungle gardens
But whether rich or poor
They have their own train station
© Glenn Davies 2002
Written 15 April 2002
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