SLOW TRAIN
errol miller
A young man
carries milk to starving children
all night he dreams of his woman, clutching
her closely, suggesting symbolically he
lovers her, what corrupt choices he has made
bursting with guilt and infatuation
it has been a long night, that compromising
of values after a day of hard drinking
so much for luck, he thinks, that damn game
of change, like buying a used car
but what the hell, he thinks, there
is always tomorrow, another
platinum plain to cross, he arises, does
not engage in sexual acts, turning
on the white light as a tool
to disperse demons, viewing “his woman” as
the enigma of his dreams, reporting
form the lifestyle desk that late
in the season he is going nowhere fast
demanding things in their places, searching
for a temple of divinity in a New Age
cluttered with the same old consciousness
starting the coffee, fetching the paper
it’s almost dawn, as he reads a bit he wonders
about buying a guitar or writing poetry
or not fighting some trivial battles
today he’ll stuff himself
with language and wine, lunch
on fast-food and cock the cylinder
of his pistol: on a slow cold morning
a man can be anything he desires
the realization gratifying he starts the engine
of his motorcar and halts at the corner
to breathe the fresh air of an early winter.
