last train to Delphos

night is still, cold. clouds hide stars, moon.
air is lean as weeks without paychecks.
a dog barks, symbolic.
thin strokes of wind carry train's fading horn.
ground carries thunder of its churning guts.
it's going uphill. i know because
where i'm at it's all uphill.
i roll, day to day, a marble in a bowl.
i'm a snail, i crawl up polished walls by day,
slip back down at night.
i'm the rock Sisyphus pushes.
i'm a man who beats his head on rubber walls,
and i know that train is bound for Delphos.

blink and i'll be an ornament of flesh
crouched atop it's engine,
flipping off an empty sky with one hand,
clutching a hollow ram's horn with the other.
and i'll ride that mammoth freudian phallus
into every virgin night, full speed.
and you'll hear my horn before my journey's end
because if the moon weren't so shy
he and i could be good friends.

© Mark E. Dougherty