A train leaves the station at one sharp
the other, half-an-hour later, heading north
and, darlings, as both go 55 an hour, when
will they meet, and where
without my childhood nightmares?
At one sharp the train will leave the nuthouse
to carry the crazies to work
for St Benedict, the Curator;
at one-thirty the other will leave behind the factory
to depose the workers in the lap of the booze house.
They’ll never meet, said Anamaria,
and, so, they’ll meet forever, I retorted
head-on colliding with her fresh idea
which Goya had an inkling to toy with
yet never did, like Goliath and I, as reported
by Valer’s camera obscura.
the crazies land at the camp, work, seem happy
no longer beaten into cognitive submission;
while the workers fill the pubs with sweat and swear
the more they drink, the lucider
their class consciousness cultivating something,
the pain between the canvass and the paint