Train To Dradeg Poem by Francis Poole

TRAIN TO DRADEG


Standing at the back of the last coach
on the train to Dradeg
with its rickety rearward facing steps
and loose handrail I grasp tightly
to watch the monkeys
on the scrap tin roofs
who shriek and tug at their lipstick penises
and show white Piranha teeth--
an effect both absurd and unsettling enough
to send me back to my car
and ruined roomette,
the one with my suitcase
filled with maps and hard-boiled eggs.
There I sit by the window
as the train slowly rolls through the forest
and gaze at the tired stone statues
squatting and straining
to defecate in the rain
while flocks of skeletal pilgrims
wipe their tears away.


--Francis Poole