We Are Echoing Down the Train Tracks
It's hardly my fault, or my Wolfhound's,
if you have not yet had an unsettling experience.
Amplify your gestures when out in public.
Spit into the palm of anybody who offers a hand.
Just the other afternoon the hound and I practiced,
on train tracks, walking with mouths gape-open.
At the bank teller's window, strike a dramatic pose,
and use a stentorian tone of anguished or enraged voice.
You cannot borrow discontent. Sugar, yes.
Refuse to shed light. I like girls who shed clingy dresses.
See, we are on this already depicted-on-video journey.
You smile, not apprehending yet that I am a desperado.
There were years and years when I forced myself
to appear composed. Imagine yourself as dry ice.
I am in retinal recession. If I don't wave back to you,
either I don't recognize you as a former fellow passenger
... or you are an asshole. Or you are the kind of woman
who prefers consideration of her opinions over her breasts.
The country seems less spacious since the 1940 census.
Yet the trains are empty of all but our former selves.
The pictures on the mantel are nightmarish when lifted
and held next to our faces. We love this activity.
The Wolfhound has to take the lead when we walk.
He thinks it unseemly for me to hog the foreground.
On train tracks, it is best to keep checking the background.
It was this way when I yesterday-saw you for the first time.