9255 train, south

The train is stopped. It’s always stopped.

The woman wants to go home

to her one toothed cat

and the death certificate on the wall—

her name except the middle name.

One woman died years before

the other was born. The train

is far away. And the later woman now

is talking to a sleeping man with earplugs.

To him, sound is quiet, a bastard boyfriend

speaking French. Bastard being a cliché

he prefers jumblegomph , same meaning

except the syllables haven’t already had the experience—

something about mythology

and cat people and the way it will go on being cliché

until people aren’t people

and everything is put in place and scheduled

like death. Maybe there never was a train. Expect, now,

the coffin-box is left open

to see the sky and the blue birds.