I lived for twenty-five months, have been dead for five
still obsessed with how dirt in my cuticles
collides with a blood-stream like the train that took me –
my baby was on board and hid in a cubby
because he knew why, why, why I threw off my
conductor hat right then even before I could have guessed
he knew, knew, knew. Choo choo choo
I lived for a week and have been dead for twenty two.

Twenty-two, twenty-two,
twenty-two weeks and pounds in a giraffes’ big heart,
collections of key chains in my baby’s room
I will never see, and wild animals would adore me better
than any man could reach at just under six feet –
choo choo trains keep me dead better than I ever could.