Train Tracks

(en route to Cologne on a saturday).

Somewhere, they're waiting to canonize you in the back.

Somewhere, they're waiting to canonize you in the back.

Weird childhood memories in this cross-country train.
Who builds their house right next to the tracks anyway.

Deutschland, deine Bahnhöfe…
They’re all up for sale, cheap to come by,
will cost you an arm and a leg to maintain, though.
Plus, why would I buy a train station?
I don’t get this country sometimes.
Still, more often than not, I get it.
But I’m a little scared of the day when that will change.

I could ride this train forever,
chasing the look in your eyes to the end of the world.
To the place where there are no train tracks anymore.
I’d walk the last bit, wherever that might be.
Overseas or continental. Lower 48 or outer space, maybe.
Maybe you haven’t been born yet. Maybe I’m already dead.

The station houses all look the same, trackside.
Once, they must have been pretty.
When there was money in carrying people back and forth.
And people liked pretty houses.
I reckon the money is still there. Somewhere.

This train takes a smoke break in the middle of nowhere.
Reminds me of two things.
a). The Greyhound stops in the town of Hanna, Alberta, home of Nickelback (of all crap bands you have to remember THIS one).
You rise from uneasy, air-conditioned sleep
and step out in the desert at about 40 degrees.
All you see is sky.
And a giant fishbowl with weird, huge deep sea creatures in it.
b). The mini-train stops in the middle of an island named Corsica, home of Napoleon Bonaparte.
Because the driver wants some ice-cream.

So this is all you can come up with, more than 30 years and a million miles after you rode your first train, at the hand of your parents.
Wait, there’s one more.

c). Taking a train to reach your first plane to go to an island named Malta, home of the Falcon.
When the engine breaks down and the schedule collapses
and your dad is as close to freaking out as never again, probably.

Not even when years later your sister crashed the family car.

I was three years old then.
On this ride today it feels like
all I’ve ever done in between
is forgetting and remembering.
At the weirdest occasions.

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