We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
Men with picked voices chant the names of cities in a huge gallery: promises that pull through descending stairways to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet of those coming to be carried quicken a grey pavement into soft light that rocks to and fro, under the domed ceiling, across and across from pale earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock go round and round! Were they to move quickly and at once the whole secret would be out and the shuffling of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing out at a high window, moves by the clock: disaccordant hands straining out from a center: inevitable postures infinitely repeated— two—twofour—twoeight! Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms. This way ma'am! —important not to take the wrong train! Lights from the concrete ceiling hang crooked but— Poised horizontal on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders packed with a warm glow—inviting entry— pull against the hour. But brakes can hold a fixed posture till— The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour! In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating the same gesture remain relatively stationary: rails forever parallel return on themselves infinitely.
We have an old train station in town, long since repurposed into an art gallery, but I used to wonder what it was like to be in one back in the days before AMTRAK and diesel locomotives. This is one of the things I love about poetry--the mental images, and even feelings it can convey or evoke.