Trains are, so they say,
Much more comfortable for long journeys
Than the buses
You can stretch
Stand up
Go to the loo
Have a cigarette
Or sleep tucked in plesantly
By the grinding from the metal womb of a train
Tonight, while I am waiting,
At the deserted station in Monfalcone,
The train which will only reach
A half of its destination,
I know that the comfort of travelling
Depends solely on
Whether you are leaving
Or arriving

Slobodan Nikolic

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trieste-zagreb-budapest/