I have previously suggested that James Reeves is a Neglected Poet who deserves to be better known. I am fond of the following poem by him. In it, nothing seems to happen. On the other hand, the never-ending journey seems somehow portentous -- in a small modern way. Like Dante in an industrial park.
It was impossible to leave the town.
Bumping across a maze of obsolete rails
Three times we reached the gasworks and reversed.
We could not get away from the canal;
Dead cats, dead hopes, in those grey deeps immersed,
Over our efforts breathed a spectral prayer.
The cattle-market and the gospel-hall
Returned like fictions of our own despair,
And like Hesperides the suburbs seemed,
Shining far off towards the guiltless fields.
We finished in a little cul-de-sac
Where on the pavement sat a ragged girl
Mourning beside a jug-and-bottle entrance.
Once more we turned the car and started back.
James Reeves, The Password (1952). An aside: depending upon the strictness of one's definition, the poem may qualify as a sonnet. A second aside: for more on the Hesperides, you may wish to check here.