It’s started up again
just in time for winter
lighting fires on Wednesday nights
watching the sparks fly up to the sky
wondering what would happen if I stepped in
and became a spark too.
The train rolls by six times a day.
Six times a day I see myself under the wheels.
I stand a little too close. My hair is ruffled by the speed.
The rails still sing as the last car rolls away
steel polished clean by speed and weight
and heat.
I look at it leaving. Hop the ties and keep moving.
Carrying a pair of glasses in my hand I feel like some kind of omen,
as if anyone on this street would notice.
see more clearly
Threadbare white t-shirt and my three nazar bracelets
protect me from the evil eye to
see more clearly
Give me luck this time, in the tradition of my ancestors
but not my parents.
The paint on the sides of the receding cars
remind me of my artist breathing in deeply,
exhaling grey smoke. He says it opens up his third eye to
see more clearly.
It’s not my problem
This clouding of the mind though
I can’t see my heart and my soul  when the world around me starts to rot too.
Muscles obey other voices sometimes
near the knives or rail ties
rubber car tires.