(Revision)- Train to Stockton

My past relationships were like shiny toxic apples
and I was readily anticipating positive change. 
The blaring train whistle called out to me, eagerly thrusting
its prospectors en route to Stockton, a 14 hour trip to reality.  
It was the last train of the night, but my eyes were wide
open and my hands shook like I had been sipping on chai tea lattes. 
Thoughts of a new relationship made my heart flutter and my mind take
flight, like optimistic butterflies flying towards a brightly shining sun. 
I sprayed the sweet soft scent of Tommy Girl, cleared my smudged
eyeliner, hoping for transformation.  Bored by daydreaming of pictures,
sitting and listening to hypnotic buzzes and clicks of the wheels, zoning
in and out of worlds, waiting for reality.  I spoke to travelers
and vagabonds; seized by stories of one man’s imprisonment for domestic
disturbances and an old sorrowful bag lady’s lengthy tales of alcoholic loss
of family ties.  Dwelling on homelessness, divorce, anger, a meal of rotting
garbage and sour milk, a dose of me.  Saturated in the shadows of their history
I released mine. The conductor announced our arrival, passengers poured
out like pent up geese, as my silhouette of memories sank back to the cargo
space.  There in a car lit parking lot stood reality; a tall, slender brunet, clasping
tulips nervously.  I finally stepped off the train, towards refreshing certainty.