First Train Seat

That faded photo, stapled in,

my passport, dog-eared, thin and old.

A younger me, a hopeful grin,

a story yet to be fully told.

I felt the backpack's canvas strain,

the hard, cold plastic of the seat.

Watching the wet fields through the pane,

the rhythmic, rumbling, train-wheel beat.

Each small town blur, a passing face.

My stomach tight, a nervous pull.

A map unfolding, tracing space.

Alone. My own. My hands were full.