The Sidewalk and the Freight Train
The sidewalk is like a freight train.
The sidewalk is a freight train.
A man with white arms and coarse hairs lifts the freight train
and walks away.
The freight train stinks of sweat and diesel.
He stinks and flees.
A man with stench and fleas eats the sidewalk
and drives a freight train into my stomach.
The stomach voids.
The freight train belches and bears down.
A gold-plated man becomes a freight train on a sidewalk
and walks, brutishly, into the forest.
The forest stinks of methane and nitrogen.
The freight train sparkles in the damp armpit.
The gold man's armpits stink.
A girl lights my pants.
A girl stinks of passenger train bathrooms,
of handicap stalls, of dining cars.
A girl with forests for armpits peaks out from the boxcar.
A girl in love with her elbow peaks out of a sidewalk crack.
The sidewalk is like a dog.
The sidewalk is a collision between a dog and a freight train.
The sidewalk smells of iron daffodils.
A man with green eyes eats flowers off the frying hot sidewalk.
A man with green eyes sees no freight train.
The freight train is like a sidewalk filled with iron daffodils.
