Here travels the night
breathing a welcome on the ten-o-clock train
its throbbing lit windows, watching
homes with a chair for you,
offered up for you.
There must be a Hank Williams song
playing softly on the piano in that back room,
the tune remembered,
the words mostly gone,
as train tracks drum their clacking teeth,
the murmur of night,
nothing but dark, white noise.
You are drawn to lists:
moths to garish light,
middle-age men to pissant beer
hookers to their electric lipstick
deep in clutch purses,
like cats to cream
and by the time your similes run dry
so do your eyes run wet
with something deep at your burning core:
red hot ash,
embers,
a volcano.
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