To Montreal Poem by Richard Provencher

Winding wheels whistle
across steel, coaches shaking,
passengers
in interruptions of rest, on

and on they rumble,
a repetitious journey across
miles of pasture
trees sharing their silhouettes.

Conversations pant through
corridors, jokes lost in the melee
an attendant repeating:
"Montreal - - quinze minutes, "
her French accent
like an historic banner -

crossing twilight's barrier
is faceless, except
for the highway, cars
flash-lighting darkness
as we continue life's journey.