Whims and Wings

 

We’re all riding a train,

we’re all crowded together,

rush hour, Summertime,

the A/C isn’t quite working,

and we’re awash with each other’s

smells and general closeness.

 

We’ve all been riding the same

train for years together.

There’s a familiarity but still a

relative distance with each other.

We don’t know each other’s names,

but we nod at each other and persevere through

our mutual and brief containment.

 

We all just want to get home,

to take our shoes off and just

relax in the cool comfort of

our own solitariness.

We’re buoyed by the thought of

our comfort, which makes the train

ride bearable.

 

An announcement comes on the

overhead PA, that the train is not

going to make any further stops

at certain stations because the

Conductor and Engineer

do not agree with the politics of

the Godless heathens who use those train stations.

 

Some groan and moan,

some people cheer,

some people swear,

some people do nothing at all.

“ ’bout time,” says a man.

 “What’s that supposed to mean,” says another.

Echoed ceaselessly through the cars as the train

rocks side to side with ever more speed.

 

Another announcement comes over

the PA, “This train is no longer stopping

as the Engineer has murdered the Conductor,

as they did not agree on the originally shared

political points of view,” said the overhead voice.  

  

“Well, I have to get off in three stops,” says a woman.

“Well, I’m supposed to get off at the next stop,” said a man.

“Oh, so you think you’re better than me,” said another woman, “just because I have to go to the end of the line.”

“Well, if the shoe fits…,” said another person.

 

The knives come out,

from pockets and purses and bags.

They start swinging at one another,

calling each other all sorts of names,

talking about their momma’s and their

personal persuasions.

Cutting and stabbing each other.

 

Another announcement:

“Due to recent legal issues, we will

end service on this train line. The Engineer

has indicated he will take this train to Hell

before ever allowing women free choices

about their health or let minorities vote.

Complaints can be lodged with the central

office, which is conveniently located in Hell.”

 

“How will I get to work?”

“How will I make ends meet?”

“How will I feed my kids?”

“Does anyone have a tissue; I’m bleeding pretty bad.”

Say the voices on the train.

All looking at each other with renewed

suspicion.

 

“This is your fault for being poor,” said one woman.

“It’s your fault for being rich,” she responds.

“Boobs,” yells a man as he begins to pound

his face into the window until he bleeds.

The train still speeding.

The train with nowhere to go

but over the abyss’ edge on the whims

and wings of nonsense.