From one risk to another fire set me running
like an old hill cat,
and I’m feeling trapped in a line of city cars.
I’d spent one night alone in my mountain home.
One day fire free until a friend spotted the smoke.
After that I did not feel so free in those mountains of mine.
Is it my imagination or do trains go slower
in summer’s oven? I’m thinking that in this light
the wheels might wrap themselves more tightly
about the rails.
Their parallelism must make the conductors insane.
The cars inch along as one after another someone
anticipates the signal. We seem to be entertainment
for the pedestrians outside,
our engines probably making them
hotter by the minute. One on the corner
is death, spitting over and over to see
if he can hit an empty can twice in a row
and set himself free. There’s
another man clapping to make the cars move faster
and one with his dog who has just spent money
that he can’t afford on something he doesn’t yet know
he wants. Another’s face
shows the debt of too many deferred mistakes. He
drew a picture once and he thought he liked it but
the smooth shaved back of his father’s neck said
never again son never again.
metonymy4u 