The train I take is not the train I took.
This one has new upholstery, and the conductor's voice
is a recording made by someone who has never
been to this station and who pronounces it
the way the map insists, with the second syllable rising
like a question my grandmother would have
corrected me for asking.

Out the window the same paddocks, the same
sheep done in chalk against an undone sky,
and the same level crossings where, as a child,
I would press my forehead to the glass and count.
I no longer count.

The town arrives. It is smaller than I remembered
and exactly the size it always was;
the discrepancy is mine to carry.
I step down. The platform has been repainted
the official colour of every platform in the country.
I bend, briefly, as a courtesy to nobody,
and pick up my bag.