By Michele McDannold
I dreamt of living in a rubber room
(my head wrapped around a train)
the whistle
doesn’t sound like a whistle
not like the old western movies
when I say old
(I mean dead, they seem dead)
black and white trapped in a box
must be bones
similar to the pale mornings when I visit the
mausoleum
in the back, where the tiles pull out
no one comes here anymore
not to see the picture behind glass that was Sampson
that was Julia
they don’t notice a dead bird brought in from the rain
No
the tiles are white
all else is ash grey,
black
the train sounds
a horn
a horn that won’t let up
on and on, it goes
as it reaches the end of my mind
the sound fades
end of the track
last stand of town
the sound of the rails
rumbling
a vibration
rattling windows
there are no windows here
only rubber
rubber white and puckered
[in the room, we are back in the room]
with buttons
small, round
looks like a couch
all the way round the room
(you can find death in rooms too)
see the door
is the outlined shape of a door
sticks out from the rest
feels like I could run
run into it
the sound
the sound might go away
Clutching at Straws 