Every small town
with its back turned
is a line of headlights

blinking red in answer
to a signal that marks
the passing of a train

making its way in rain
to Seattle, that marks
a city dispersed

across a plain
of dark cars, dark
houses, dark bars

under neon lights
that promise
exotic places

but deliver
local spirits
with noise

enough to make anyone
who happens in
believe they are not alone.

On the train, we think
we’ve made good time
when we see Pioneer Press

long before they told us
we would arrive.
Cellphones open.

Passengers call
to make connections.
I have been waiting for the bus

since Chicago. Lines of freight trains
remind us who owns these tracks.
Conductor tells a story about a collision

to keep us in our seats, but we all rise
to wait while tracks are switched by hand, and
we roll into the station just minutes ahead of schedule.

I stop to look at the full moon
but do not miss the bus.
My absence means nothing

to the train, which will
carry it while it goes on dividing
small towns into this side and the other

to the other side of sunrise
this side of Fargo. And the bus
would have been there with me

or without. No need to call.
In the Twin Cities, bus is
ubiquitous as god until the last bar closes.

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