The protagonist is Hope,
Mesmerizing,
Could it ever give up?
Takes the scarf and then the keys,
The two different socks are still an issue,
But Hope promises to stop.
Hope goes out the door,
Shuts it loudly,
Wakes me up,
I rise without it.
It goes to work with all the folk,
It checks in proper,
In and out,
Like the wheels of intercities,
Reading seams of rails aloud.
They're conveniently placed,
Right below my bedroom window front.
The train that Hope has boarded trails on
With scraping screeches
Through said bedroom like a joke.
Like the Triplets of Belleville,
I am the dog,
I bark right at it,
Hit the beat at which the wheels
Shift through the rails
As they charge into a whistle,
And also hope’s inside there,
Nestled,
Sitting proudly by the window
Headed into the city.
You can’t hear the sounds from inside of the rail jet
they are muffled,
almost pleasant.
Hope goes unhidden,
Always present,
Steady, stuck,
Like scorpions in resin.
So Hope travels on,
Into the city,
Travels lightly,
No possessions,
As it works
And drinks its coffee,
Jittered slightly,
Stamps letters into word processors,
Gets a sandwich at the Prêt.
The work is good,
All good
And well
And good
And well
And good again!
It’s all so good,
Why should it not be?
The answer's predetermined, set.
Hope comes home with something edible
Wrapped in cellophane
And surely meant to **** me
As I douse it in some Heinz
Hope usually comes home at different,
untraceable, untrackable times.
When it finally comes back,
When the day draws to a close,
When Hope is folding its attire,
Its business casual clothes,
I burst alight with laughter,
Panicked,
I ask again if all’s ok.
Hope turns and says, "Don’t worry 'bout it."
I scream,
Jump up,
Lunge at it,
Punch the space right where it stood,
And hear another train horn fizzle as it whistles through my room.
