Vivisection
Feb 24 2009


I take the train.
The hidden city, flickering by.
Backyards, clotheslines,
red-brick factories
seen from behind.
This is the back room
rarely entered.
The city undressed,
not trying to impress
anyone.

This right-of-way was once a mighty artery
into the city’s heart.
Now the track is rusting
the road-bed, clogged with brush.
And the train groans and sways
clattering by,
offering me a glimpse
into the city’s soft under-belly —
like the heated words
that are heard
through cheap rooming-house walls,
the pasty bodies
that turn away
from morning light.

Passing through farmland, the prairies
the train at night,
I will write long passages
whole paragraphs
leisurely words.
But here, I write sentence fragments
as story-after-story flashes by.

A dog, barking, on its chain.
A man, in his under-shirt, fist raised.
And pink lingerie, out to dry,
flapping lustily
as the breeze freshens.