From London to Paris to Budapest,

The Orient Express flows without rest.

It rolls into stations, grill grinning wide

At the border guards cleaning guns while they bide.

Tomorrow, the uniforms change color;

Yet the men aren’t unlike one another.

They all stand watch on the steel river,

The same track, though their perspectives differ.

Monsieur Duchamps asks for a seat,

Beside Frau Koch who drinks her tea.

In the dining car, ten nations reside,

No matter the land that rushes outside.

The porter nabs a smoke from a Russian;

No words are needed for this discussion.

They glimpse a sight through frosted panes,

Of pregnant moon’s glow on snowy terrain.

I toot the horn, goodnight and goodbye,

Fresh steam, like clouds, trail cross the sky.