Tonight's Poet Corner: Twelve Hours
Twelve Hours
by Belinda Roddie
The flight is only half of it;
the trains coil round like snakes
that supersede the older models,
yet still, the vintage locomotives
are allowed to frolic in zoos,
traveling on the teeth of their keepers.
I sit, and I listen to music,
and behind me, people dance.
They receive crumpled green,
head into the next station with heads
heavy with minimalist opportunity. I
wonder, deep down, if the "baddest
bitch in the U.S.A." ever got the three
bucks he needed to feed his bad bitchery.
When I'm home, I dream of hikes
in the rain, in Broadway lights, in prom
tickets and tuxedos, in the girl with
the golden stars in her hair, in the warmth
of my wife's arms. It took long enough,
but I am happy with this suburban cocoon.
by Belinda Roddie
The flight is only half of it;
the trains coil round like snakes
that supersede the older models,
yet still, the vintage locomotives
are allowed to frolic in zoos,
traveling on the teeth of their keepers.
I sit, and I listen to music,
and behind me, people dance.
They receive crumpled green,
head into the next station with heads
heavy with minimalist opportunity. I
wonder, deep down, if the "baddest
bitch in the U.S.A." ever got the three
bucks he needed to feed his bad bitchery.
When I'm home, I dream of hikes
in the rain, in Broadway lights, in prom
tickets and tuxedos, in the girl with
the golden stars in her hair, in the warmth
of my wife's arms. It took long enough,
but I am happy with this suburban cocoon.
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