Last Stop

The mower, trailing quarter inch grasses,
smells of oil and not-green gasses,
parks in the open door,
clearly stating no more
like the famous raven of yore.
Having pushed the pack back
popped the container top,
it surveys each stop,
makes no move to leave,
waits for the train to heave
itself away from the gate—
it always runs late.
If it had a phone,
it would call home
before disappearing into the dark
and focused crowd,
stumbling together in the loud
station.
We all need a vacation.