Backward-Facing Carriage Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

'Backward Carriage, Early Draft of a Life'


The train shudders
through a corridor of fields,
windows flicking past barns, pylons,
a rusted ute half‑sunk in grass.

I sit face against the direction of travel,
watching the day unspool behind me,
towns shrinking
into small, forgettable shapes:

A few old choices drift up,
passing sensations, random impressions,
things that just happened
when I wasn't paying attention.

The carriage rocks.
Someone coughs.
A suitcase thuds against metal.
Symbolic of something vague,
the world doing what it does.

A bend in the track reveals
a cluster of houses
I once thought I'd never leave.
Their roofs look smaller now,
paint bleached by years
I never bothered counting.

I try to picture the version of myself
that walked those streets,
but the image won't settle
—it flickers,
then dissolves into the passing scrub.

The train slows near a siding,
gravel kicking up under the wheels.
A dog trots along the fence line,
keeping pace for a moment
before drifting off toward the sheds.

I breathe in the diesel‑warm air,
searching for lack of meaning,
half-expected revelations
—the motion lets me sigh
carry me backward
to wherever this line ends.









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