“Night Riders” (Riding in Boxcars, 2006) is about the world that exists after most of us are asleep. It is about people trapped: travellers moving among the deteriorating underbellies of cities and towns where the squeaky wheel gets no oil.

A late night bus is where people pretend they are elsewhere, but don’t know where elsewhere is. It could be about any of us, reflected in dusty windows, blinded by the headlights, and waiting for our name to be called.

Glenn K. Currie

 

 

Night Riders

The riders

Climb wearily up the stairs,

And scatter,

Seeking space.

Old women

Wrestling with shopping bags,

And boxes tied with twine.

Young men

With no baggage,

Except their birth.

 

The engine rumbles awake,

Then settles to a low whine,

Inviting uneasy sleep.

Approaching headlights

Ricochet off the glass,

Then disappear.

Blending with stops and starts,

And potholes,

In familiar rhythm.

 

The towns,

Strung out,

Like bread crumbs

On a winding path.

Mark places

To pass through.

The driver calling out

Their names.

A few departing,

Among the faded signs

And broken street lamps.

 

Those not asleep,

Pretending they are elsewhere.

Staring,

With empty eyes,

At their reflections,

Hiding in the dark.

Waiting,

For the driver,

To call their names.