Chiclets on a Train
All stomachs show up today, mine included.
It's still digesting the slices of silence I had for breakfast.
One the way to somewhere, everyone is hanging on, looking down,
not at shoes, just straight down, private spaces, determined.
I look down public and see CHICLETS, trails of broken color,
tiny lacquered squares, a carnival waiting for parades.
There must be a Cadbury salesman on board with a hole in his case,
maybe a frantic child, a group of nuns with a Chiclets secret.
I look for starched habits, dangling rosaries, perhaps the child.
I see: stomachs attached to torsos, to eyes, all looking down.
All hanging onto their private spaces, determined.
I think of mice that will soon prosper when the train is silent and dark.
Their soft bellies full of shine.
By Elena Arosemena
