An Old-fashioned Sleeper

I would like to go
on an old-fashioned sleeper,
caught up in some
intrigue or caper,

dodging the
unkind intentions
of chaps with guns
and cops with truncheons,

not quite sure
what I'm in flight from,
stepping lightly
from the platform,

a swirling scene
of steam and suitcases,
into the train's
Freudian recesses.

The guard, respectful,
deferential -
good bit of
comic potential -

regales me with toast
and well-brewed tea;
he has a lot of time
for a gent like me.

After a long
eventful night,
perhaps a chase,
perhaps a fight,

perhaps a little
polite high jinks
with some suspiciously
sexy sphinx,

breakfasting on
the last long stretch
of fields and lonely
farms, I picture

kitchens filled
with big galoots,
finishing their porridge,
pulling on their boots,

girding themselves
for the quotidian.
Meanwhile,
the light comedian

shakes out his pockets,
with prying fingers
explores the plots
where darkness lingers,

and leaps over
the tartan hill
into the next
exciting reel.

David Callin

If you have any comments on this poem,  David Callin would be pleased to hear from you.