Ticketless Traveller

I peer into them.

Like a child looks into a well.

Move the strand of hair, 

that plays security check.

I come a little closer,

so that I can travel 

more intimately.

And then, like a baffling magic trick,

I disappear.

First, to a quaint, green village you call home,

where the scarecrow basks under an uncultured mid-day sun.

You are visiting your favourite.

I see you run by ancient trees, bumbling cottages, and crooked brooks.

And then, effortlessly,

you trip on an ant hill.

Yet again.

The scarecrow grins.

You get up and laugh loudly at your own bufoonery.

Clown.

I jet-set next,

to that obscure flat in a crowded suburb,

where you spend hours with an old, forlorn grandmother,

drinking up her life. 

She relives it in ways a Timeline cannot ever duplicate.

And finally,

you take me quickly,

to meet your trees.

Your wise friends of many years.

I eavesdrop on your conversation.

You, like you often do,

are asking them to loosen up, 

and sway a little.

They seem reluctant.

Stuck up, losers.

I return to the quiet, empty room.

There is the tungsten bulb for company.

And one of our many fans.

I move my eyes away yours,

smiling as I create distance.

I rest against the yellow wall.

And exhale gently.

Travelling was never this easy.

And cheap.

Ha.