May 30, 2014

Friday Poem

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