Jan 23, 2007

I don't know where this poem came from....

Chiclets Salesman On the Train

All the stomachs
showed up today,
mine included.
It’s still digesting
the slices
of warm silence
I had for breakfast.
On the way
to somewhere,
everyone is
hanging on,
looking down,
not at shoes,
just straight down,
determined,
private.

I look down
public
and see Chiclets.
Everywhere
trails of broken color,
lacquered squares,
tiny carnivals
waiting for a band,
a parade,
recognition.

There must be
a Chiclets salesman
on board, with a hole
in his pockets,
or a disappointed
child. Maybe a nun
with a secret Chiclets
devotion. I look around
I don’t see any habits,
no distraught children,
just stomachs attached
to torsos with heads
all looking down,
all blind.


By E.Arosemena