she tells me
it gives her chills
to feel the trains rush past
on their way to places she'll never go

they carry wind
she says
from places she's never been
and she breathes a little deeper
when the rails start to sing

toes to the ledge
she stiffens her wrists
palms to the fury
catching blurs of blacks and whites and blacks and whites
and yellow

she shivers
a shake that loosens her bones
and she sits next to me
settling slow like the flow of her dress
in the fading stream of a north bound torrent

she tells me
there's nothing to be afraid of
and I believe her
though she spoke not a word

We play with the past,
us gawkers
laugh out louders
and marry the fun. Or
purchase t-shirts to remember

The Thinker plopped upon a porcelain throne
Rodin in the bowl
a powerful internal struggle
philosophy flushed for comedic blue cleanser
carved beautifully

The Vitruvian Man in full windmill
Townshend style
over strings in sextuplicate with limbs to match.
Perfection at eight heads high and
these amps go to eleven

The Persistence of Memory in any variation
so long as we don't have to consult our own dreams
Or Dali's

We shake the dust from our
feet and smile, forgetting things like The Thinker
was originally named The Poet
because that's not funny
and we're cleverer (more clever?) cleverer than that

Christ on a cross
the symbol - resurrection
Life after Death
a nice gesture

Hopes in the form of prayer flood
the faux pillow of your
stage
coffin
resting place
******* box
please.  I'm just glad his eyes are closed

Jesus bronzed and bouncing
wishes up to heaven
Did you catch any of those?
I'm taking him home, you know
the crucifix over your chest
to lock in a box
like you
in the dark
where the dead belong