Sunday, March 19, 2017

The Express

We carry on in our train cars,
flapping open and closed our newspapers.
Most days the band is playing.
Some days the treat cart passes
and our pockets are full of coins - ha-ha,
we're self-contained ticker tape parades!
The drunk man swoons and on a 
fine day like today we don't hate him.
Some days there is plenty enough
that it doesn't matter if there are
snow flies on the drifts or jonquils
glowing in the gardens. It's when
we hit the hills, or the hills hit us,
that we hear the music as hollow.
Then the tuba blows its mournful note
and we shake our heads wondering 
how it was we didn't notice every note
gets flouted through the curved dark throat.