The coffee drips
I make the eggs
Put on my shirt
Slick back my locks
And go to work
I board the early morning train
On guard, on duty all the way
In case the angels come to call
A train too corroded
To carry me far
I await the second coming
Of the electric car
It's dark sometimes when I come home
Dousing the lights, hanging the phone
I leave the re-set button on
Going to bed with nothing on
But there is no transcendence
I ask, is this my sentence?
The dread sleeps in my stomach like a stone
Morning returns
The pinstripe men
The pantsuit women
Clutching red books
Chewing red pen
They board again
And hide their tortured looks
The rails take me down
Toward the bankers' yard
For the angel of the sun
I was still standing guard
... when she finally got on
Her swollen belly shone
With stars and moons
Painted there upon
Like a good hit song
I'm dancing down the years
In which all my longing
Endures ... keeps me strong
Although I'm never sure
Which terminus is home
They're kind to me
Occasionally
They set me free
To write a poem.
*****
Click here for more poems by Richard Morgan
So well worded for all eternal wanderers, strangers, who are amazed about what is normal for everyone else.
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