a small round light
coming in the night
there is
a
man on
the tracks
underneath
a piece of
burlap
plucked out of
a passage
which he grew
profoundly to
understand
there will be
a knife
and a
napkin
and a
fork
on the cuneiform
countertop
at the
DIP N’ EAT RESTAURANT
that won’t
be used tonight
suspended
they will
simply be
retired
like an
old ballplayer’s
jersey
a wino
has stumbled
into a train
blue cruisers
converge
like a
squealing piggery
around
a corncob;
arrived to lend
one more
death
the stamp
of authenticity
remove one more
life through
burial in anonymity
draping of
convention
it does not seem
enough to deny
existence
it is necessary to
blaspheme
even the
sadness of
a merciful shroud
of drizzle
cut through it
with
infernal radios,
contemptuous flashlights,
knuckle-head jokes
lamenting stale donuts
and rooting in the
earth between the
slats
for fingers
and toes
and a
nose
or
tongue
they seek to
apprehend
it all-
later they
will
limb by limb
or however
you can struggle for
a lifetime to
find your legs,
to stand erect
you wobble
and teeter
on legs that
seem rubbery…
like always,
you push and strain
and stagger
more often
than not
you get slammed
one night
in a falter
by a racing
locomotive
that you never saw