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.