In Transit
The spasms are cold as they crawl up
The ridges of our spines…
In the tunnels the behemoth
Waits like a scourge in the timeless world
The sardines, punch lines in an old joke,
Peel back their metal tops and breathe
Before they go bad if they have not already
Elbows, knees, assorted arms splay on top
Of one another as fatigue overpowers the senses
Decaying flesh talks like robotic Peanuts characters
On the loud speaker and we don’t listen
Until the news is tragic because lamentations
Are so natural; murder hard attack, bomb squad
And these loose moving parts quit there
Unauthorized or hapless touching as we are moving
The slowest building guitar solos
Anticipating crescendos of shake and rattle
Snapping of our most precious strings
Until we are home and turning on our lighters
Reserved for the soothing ballad that
Helps us all justify our stint with snipers in the mountains
Of the desert, our beds made of fire…
By Micah Zevin 2010....Happy New Year fellow poets and writers....
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