Bumblebee

It is like finding a hole in the universe. A door nobody else knows about. You swing it open and crawl through into the streets of a small town. You pass the barbershop. The pharmacy. The bank. The grocery. Maybe a row of grain elevators on the edge of town. All the houses are white. People are sitting out on their porches as if theyve been expecting you. They wave and say a few words. Some ask you to come up and visit for a time. They want to know what you were doing before you fell asleep and what you plan on donig when you wake up. Theyre fascinated by it all. Sleep is the sole religion of this town. Icons of their reclining saints are everywhere. On Sundays even the infirm gather their pillows and blankets and walk to church to lie down on the pews and worship their great and slumbering god. Its such a pleasant place, you almost hate to leave.

I am seduced by trains. When one moans in the night like some dragon gone lame, I rise and put on my grandfather’s suit. I pack a small bag, step out onto the porch, and wait in the darkness. I rest my broad-brimmed hat on my knee. To a passerby I’m a curious
sight—a solitary man sitting in the night. There’s something unsettling about a traveler who doesn’t know where he’s headed. You can’t predict his next move. In a week you may receive a postcard from Haiti. Madagascar. You might turn on your answering machine and hear his voice amid the tumult of a Bangkok avenue. All afternoon you feel the weight of the things you’ve never done. Don’t think about it too much. Everything starts to sound like a train.

Your tears can drown me,
your heaviness sinks me too.
I feel what you feel.

You have beautiful, beautiful eyes;
so bright and alive and enchanting.
I want to be with you all of the time.
It’s hopeless but I have to try.