Peeko Pacifiko by Ken O'Steen

a small round light

  coming in the night

  there is

  a

  man on

  the tracks

  underneath

  a piece of

  burlap

  plucked out of

  a passage

  which he grew

  profoundly to

  understand

  there will be

  a knife

  and a

  napkin

  and a

  fork

  on the cuneiform

  countertop

  at the

  DIP N’ EAT RESTAURANT

  that won’t

  be used tonight

  suspended

  in between

  they will

  simply be

  retired

  like an

  old ballplayer’s

  jersey

  a wino

  has stumbled

  into a train

  blue cruisers

  converge

  like a

  squealing piggery

  around

  a corncob;

  arrived to lend

  one more

  death

  the stamp

  of authenticity

  remove one more

  life through

  burial in anonymity

  draping of

  convention

  it does not seem

  enough to deny

  existence

  it is necessary to

  blaspheme

  even the

  sadness of

  a merciful shroud

  of drizzle

  cut through it

  with

  infernal radios,

  contemptuous flashlights,

  knuckle-head jokes

  lamenting stale donuts

  and rooting in the

  earth between the

  slats

  for fingers

  and toes

  and a

  nose

  or

  tongue

  they seek to

  apprehend

  it all-

  sooner or

  later they

  will

  limb by limb

  or however

  you can struggle for

  a lifetime to

  find your legs,

  to stand erect

  you wobble

  and teeter

  on legs that

  seem rubbery…

  like always,

  you push and strain

  and stagger

  more often

  than not

  you get slammed

  one night

  in a falter

  by a racing

  locomotive

  that you never saw