Long Was the Night.

Last night was long. All yesterday was long. After riding the train for six hours that day, I had a lot of time to think. Here is what came of it.

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Here travels the night

whispering some vague welcome out
through windows of lit windows
of homes with a chair for me

offered up for me.

There must be an old country song
playing soft on the piano in the back room
the tune mostly remembered
the words mostly gone,
train tracks drumming shiny clacking teeth
and the whir of the night
nothing but dark white noise.

I am drawn to lists

like moths to garish light,
middle aged men to cans of beer
little girls to their plastic pink lipstick
in the bowels of plastic clutch purses,
like cats to cream

and by the time my similes run dry

so my eyes run wet

with something deep at the burning core

red hot ash,
campfires,
volcanoes.