Go Lucky

I can still ask for that childhood train
wrapped in sets under holiday trees that were yours
Mine
was real.
And it rumbled foreshadowing groans into the woodwork
of blanket dreamscapes
passing into recess of twilight.

I wanted to surf its tyrannical ebb
knitting my hands in a fetal wedge
And submitting to infection
that was its engine scent
chewing on fuel and
breathing earthquakes.

I fractured tracks, too early hatching
Too late.
And look from this card-house station
to you on your train, departing.
White fingerprints on my cabinetry
Mine
again
Mine.

Ifyouopenyourmouthonthebus
youreardrumswon’tburstwiththeblow