Your Long Angular Feet

Your Long Angular Feet You don’t know me, but I been riding here in this trundling lounge car for two hours now, watching you and your long angular feet, while rumbling over these burdened tracks, to silent Garden City, up there in Kansas on the high wheat plains, sky bound! I been wondering what your name is. Alas, it is really none of my business, but your silent intuitive look, your expressive knowing gaze, has intrigued me with repentant ambivalences, and guilty acknowledgements within my mind, far beyond any understandable explanation, far beyond the passing distant New Mexico mountains, as they inertly move with silent dogged violence, out there, in the whirring passing blur, beyond these curving airy Amtrak eyes, of blue tint and orange penetrating glare, wrought with distorting apparitions of yellow and green wheezing monsters of morning light, with the Super Chief masticating eastern miles, like a termite boring ferociously, slashing into the railroad ties of unyielding time; And so we sit, staring out this bubble window in the sun, and I been wondering about you. I been believing you’re educated, I can tell, by the look of your pursed lips, indicative of past heartbreaks and meltdowns; and I been believing you’re a democrat, by your descending, unhearing stare, indicative of past arguments with fools who sleep near obelisks, set in old stone. And as you gaze far away through the lounge car windows, deep into New Mexico, its heart and rocky soul, I wonder what you’re remembering there, smiling, at peace with your intended purpose. It was really nothing to me or anyone else, nothing earth-shaking or profoundly circumstantial, but you got off in Albuquerque, you and your long angular feet, and you walked away, like a dead person in an old film reel. I