Wire Train


I wasn’t sorrowful watching the runs in the window stocking from the silly rain that kept pounding from dawn to dusk, and as the clouds ran away from me, to be replaced by more, darker, lifeless bigger brothers that frowned at me. The night before, the day before, the week before had taken it all out of me, and left me a husk of pliable features, ones that could be picked up with coat hangars or marionette strings or tongue depressors, and moved into comical or fearsome masks. But the dancing hands whose inelegant incarnation I seemed to be were on break, holding a coffee cup or twisting a piece of brown hair absent-mindedly in a deceptively-gendered non-chalance, their own puppeteer staring at the bikini calendar on the wall of the employee lounge, then realizing he looks like a pervert, and looking away.

The sun came out the next morning after my uneasy sleep, the whole fiery thing had passed in the night, as it usually does, and things were pungent and wet—the smell dandelion milk all over my nostrils, sour and rich, and streaks of mud were on the edges of the concrete steps where people scraped their shoes before going into their apartments. The frizz of the overhead wires tunneling the sky towards the other end of the line ratcheted the animals into a state of confused directionless agitation, and me too. No other choice, we ran with the telephone clicks and whines in the aura expanded by the humidity and followed those phone calls forever, forever, forever.














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