The Fugitive

I risk it, reckless, without a ticket—
a leap into the liminal, limping on legality’s edge.
My stomach tightens,
fear flickers like scenes flashing by the window.

Living on the rails,
knowing I was wrong, yet comforted,
by crowded corridors,
where I could hide.

I sit on the cold floor,
legs sprawl until the call—"Move!"—
a shove.
I slide into the final carriage,
outside snowy fields stream past in silent, sweeping scenes,
a blur of white and whispering wind.

Suddenly, a voice commands,
"Tickets, please,”
worry presses in,
a man beside me feigns sleep,
another sees my shock and fear,
whispers—"You’re not alone my dear.
As the snow’s tangled the trains."

I lie—my voice trembles,
pretending I have a ticket,
fishing through my purse,
fingers fumble—
searching for what isn’t there,
for a past that never was.

Time ticks tight.
Until the train,

trembling as it turns into the station,

and I glimpse the light of freedom,
the promise of escape,
gone at last, the grip of fear—
the door slides open,
I am free, I am free—
the day is clear.

This poem comes from a particularly vivid dream that I had.