Slowly each eye lid broke its seal and surveyed the surroundings.
mingling people filtering into now empty seats and benches
The soft grind of the tonage of steel and hope remixed itself
with the blaring of the trains horn.
I breathed evenly as if deciding whether to inhale my surroundings or to venture back into the warm lull of my dreaming.
Scanning the interior of the tram I felt an odd emptiness.

She was gone.

The "Business Pages" were sitting next to me
whispering of shareholders and corporate alliances and boardroom takeovers,
Nauseating me.
She must have gotten tired of it too.
Curiosity filled me gently, where had she gone?
Another boxcar?
Possibly

I looked at the now moving horizon
playing my little game of placement markers.
Modern buildings, surrounding the epicenter,
a expansive plaza flanked by a history I do not recognize
but have been taught all too well...

We were in Philadelphia.
Liberty, Eagles, and Cheesesteaks rambled their way into the air
spray painted onto limestone mosaics,
rising out of alleyway kitchens
and whoring itself in courtroom boundaries.

Did she get out here? Does this place peak her
wonder and bewilderment?
This abolitionist refuge?
This sinister outcrop of USA INC.
overshadowing poverty and late night Mickeys.
Where is this woman with the nutmeg skin headed?

The train hurtled itself faster against the aging matter of Time,
a meloncholy lullaby coaxing me off into a distance.
My hand touched the "Business Pages"
conveniently placed beside me.

I saw the hand written riddle above the Stock Report
"What is black and white and red all over"

A stoic chuckle lodged itself in my throat.

Shame my dear, I believe its Shame.





________________________________________
"With peace and love in my lungs,
I hold my breath until the Poet returns."

--Boxcarboys