There is a piano on fire across the street.
We watch the flames grow and spread toward us.
Across the phone wires, and the power lines,
to the roof, walls and edges of our home.
The house burns around us,
the smoke is thick and runs across our skin like a kitten tongues
and stabs our lungs like knitting needles.
“Is your cup full darling?”
“isn’t it though?”
“What agony, this thing. This love.”
“But full cups though.”
Our couch burns and our clothes and hair.
Our eyeballs explode and sizzle and drool down our faces
and fill the corners of our mouths.
We are alone, but together
drunk on the prospect of living forever
but settings fires to make sure we dont.
An overnight train ride,
filled with retired bankers/bank robbers.
There’s an air of familiarity between them,
but no one can quite pin it down.
This déjà vu train car winds its way between white mountains
and my newspaper dutifully reports:
train accidents on the rise.
My coffee cup rattles and clanks in time
with the trains rusty wheels.
I wonder if they ever invented a rattle-less train,
if it would lose it’s charm,
if the driver would have to compensate
by playing it a little looser at the wheel,
I wonder if this explains airplane turbulence.
I wonder if trains have steering wheels.
The attendant is making her way down the aisle,
stopping at each seat,
she stops by my side and asks me if everything is ok,
and I tell her it is.
She has a face that you immediately want to be very close to for a long time.
I don’t mean that she’s a kitten,
but I don’t mean she isn’t one either.
The falling snow presses down on the sides of the train
and I stare out into the black.
Loneliness is thick on a ride like this, and you can almost touch it,
as if it’s there to keep you company.
I look around at the oriental carpeting lining the floors;
everybody’s waiting for the drummer to set up,
but none ever does.
The bankers and the robbers,
still unable to fully recognize each other
have agreed to sleep on it for now,
and I decide to join them.