The Insomnabulator

Left sleep on the 3:12, window seat,
cheek against the square, cold frame.
Murmuring riders - the too hot, the too cold
the knitters, the readers,
the lonely lustful prayers
unwound from dreams;
The one who strikes the door with his fist
and begs to be turned back.
Some press the pinhole light above
stare straight ahead, lint and stains
counted, recounted.
There are pacers in the aisle, stumbling
into anxious talkers, and the late-night foragers
faces refrigerator-white.
We rumble and shudder forward,
and the morning revolves
into our varied, intrepid journeys.