Early morning, we turn our heads as
the machine, slow and beast-like,
groans its way into the station.
It is a tethered dragon, scaled and
unaccommodating to human feet.
Still, we patter in, quietly, prop
our bodies into shape, shift
uncomfortably in our seats.
This is unlike us, and it doesn't suit us:
hesitation. Nobody else gets on at this stop.
Another town, another place.
Under our watchful gaze, cities blur familiar
as we count them on our fingers:
Tokyo, London, New York, and still we've
yet to reach our destination.
Eventually, we sleep. Waiting and
searching have worn us thin; together
we have seen all four corners, all
seven seas. Now culture shock is setting in.
Sprawled over empty seats,
we dream, dazed by motion.
Third culture kids, we have left
no stone unturned, no language unlearnt,
no sky untouched. There is no earth we have not seen,
nor bathed our fingers in. No dream we have not
dreamed. No home for which to
long. The train rattles on.