Never the midnight vibrates until a wine glass
    breaks. The train twists
    off track. Unslaked, mistaken claims
    flash the cabin like a camera. The future maims
    the now. A begins the alphabet's proletariat
    is out of rage: the poets
    have forgotten how to work. All aboard
    the conductor swore we'd
    lurch forward. Into what
    hall of mirrors does this track split,
    what toothless decadence yawns
    over a suburban sprawl of manicured lawns?
    We're checking in on the check out list.
    Sign my alias' alias.

Copyright © Erica Anzalone, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.