This Can't Be It

How did I get here? This can't be it.

I must have fallen asleep along the way
and missed out on the scenery, but this
can't be the end point. I would never
have signed up for this, never bought
the ticket to Now, to This Place. It
must be just another stop some distance
ahead; the train slows down enough for me
to see a dark and dismal view, wasteland
and abandoned buildings, crowds of scowling,
fearful faces going nowhere in particular,
milling back and forth. Hopeful vendors come
and call up from the platform down below,
selling something lukewarm. But even though
I'm thirsty, we're not stopping. I won't let it.
I know where I'm going now, I've shaken off
the sleep and checked my ticket for the hundreth
time and have the destination I was dreaming of
settled once again within my heart. A good place,
much better than Here, I think as the train begins
to pick up speed. How many fellow passengers
have gotten off the train too early, settling for a
shorter trip and missing out on what would be
the very best. I mustn't fall asleep, though.

Silly me, to worry. If I did, and missed
my stop, you'd climb aboard from where you're
waiting for me at the station, wake me up and
help me with my bags. I know that. But sometimes
I grow weary of the ride. Sometimes I'm surprised
by how long it's taking. Sometimes I get thirsty.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014