That train station has a way
of filling up your nose
with dust and cigarettes and sweat--
a traveler's colognes.
By now it's near as comforting
as the smell of sun-shot ice
mixed with gasoline, vanilla,
alcohol and spice.
My heat-slicked skin sticks to the
mossy vines of yellow mane.
as I Iug my purple suitcase down
the stairs to catch the train.
My heartbeat ticks like pendulum,
and each here has their own,
waiting for cars to rumble close
to buckle, halt and groan.
"Traveling?" a patron asks,
"Traveling," I grin.
Excitement burgeons in my neck
as saccharine wind sweeps in.
In a roaring flash of ivory light
my voice is shred and lost,
crushed like pennies on the track by
the grotesque ouroboros.
I board the train, await my stop,
the A/C swarms like flies
around my fellow passengers,
my passengers and I.
My ticker counts the seconds,
and the seconds, they do pass--
but soon we fumble to a stop,
and my breath fogs the glass.
I stand and heave my suitcase
toward the tired, hissing door,
and thump over the threshold
to the fetid concrete floor.
I lug my suitcase down the stairs
and feel my heart thrum faster;
my hair clings to my choking throat
like sopping alabaster.
"Traveling?" a stranger pries,
"Traveling," I ape.
I pull my purple suitcase close
as the train doors grind agape.
The train sputters in-- I board,
and hum the same old sigh;
maggots seize my passengers,
my passengers and I.
I shamble back past the threshold
and stare grimly at my shoes.
Down the stairs I go again,
to suffer the train's abuse.
"Traveling?" a tyrant girds,
"Traveling," I groan,
I turn to face the villain
and I find myself alone.
I board the train and find again
my seat, surrounded by
gaunt hard ivory faces
and crooked smiles wry.
Their chasmal eyes no longer home
to maggot or to fly,
just putrid rot, my passengers,
my passengers and I.
I, teary, bid them all farewell,
as the train patiently drones,
toward dust and cigarettes and sweat,
a traveler's colognes.
It spits me out like chewing gum
and brays, crescendoing;
careens into the mouth again,
"Next stop--!" still echoing.
I haul my suitcase up the stairs,
though fire tugs the strands
of each muscle, bone, and organ,
the work rosins my hands.
I hear the train cars rumble on
with ashes in its seats
and whistle off to somewhere else
while my heart, still, it beats.