Conspiracy? Poem by Frank Bana

The coffee drips
I make the eggs
Put on my shirt
Slick back my locks
And go to work

I board the early morning train
On guard, on duty all the way
In case the angels come to call

A train too corroded
To carry me far
I await the second coming
Of the electric car

It's dark sometimes when I come home
Dousing the lights, hanging the phone
I leave the re-set button on
Going to bed with nothing on

But there is no transcendence
I ask, is this my sentence?
The dread sleeps in my stomach like a stone

Morning returns
The pinstripe men
The pantsuit women
Clutching red books
Chewing red pen
They board again
And hide their tortured looks

The rails take me down
Near the bankers' yard
For the angel of the sun
I was still standing guard

... when she finally got on
Her swollen belly shone
With stars and moons
Painted there upon

Like a good hit song
I'm dancing down the years
In which all my longing
Endures... keeps me strong
Although I'm never sure
Which terminus is home
They're kind to me
Occasionally
They set me free
To write a poem.