The local railway ran on time, but who
Saw what they chucked into the boiler? Palm
and coconut and feral cow—the balm
that Gilead & Goshen found to choo
us on. Mahogany the shining track,
mysterious the effervescent rail:
they served. At least I never saw them fail,
though Clementine and son did not come back.
Some long-pig entrée, maybe. Maybe not.
Maybe she is the Queen of Some Grass Lodge.
Perhaps she was the pudding, giant stodge
the product of a caramelized pot.
Anyway, when the whistle sounds, the birds
rise like a raucous rainbow, and the rain
stampedes the unseen multitude. The train
cuts through them all, invisible in herds,
and we arrive to stinger and relief.
Much is made of our fortitude and skill.
The audience about us, never still,
closer yet, professing disbelief.
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