I stand in a queue
In my hand I hold the golden ticket -
The shrillness of the whistle pierces my thoughts
My paintbrush moves to he rhythm of the journey
Back and forth, side to side
My mind is flooded with images of friends and family
Yet, I hide my feelings in my suitcase
Like all my most precious possessions
A smell lingers between each carriage
The young man struggles to serve his customers-
Each demanding something different
Flashes of light shine through the dark interior
Reminding me of what is to come
I will soon be home.