At the corner of love and loss, I watch both the train and the boats scurry and scuttle into the night.
Part of me is envious of those in motion.
In front of me, the ferry boats, like small trays of candlelight floating on the water, intersect and reflect each other, fading into the distance.
Behind me, the last bit of the train sounded as if a small mighty mouse was pushing the entire train forward all by himself while yelling: "outta my way, I've got places to be!" in a pitch almost exclusively heard by dogs.
What in life is not worthy of poetry?
For isn't everything beautiful and worth wonder?
I would certainly like to think so.
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