Dead Orchestras

Angels, Never Slow

There is, and will be, a blind conductor

Riding, pushing along, alone.

Familiar with the tracks, the turns, the bumps,

the gentle breeze that rocks

the beast across an unsteady bridge.

Paths never seem to change, only ever

the destination. Another left turn,

A small wave and a smile that sinks oceans.

Forgetful, always forgetful, never cautious enough.

A shudder from the cars; phone vibrations.

Everything right on schedule, but never the cliff.

There is a certain pity that is often felt for him.

Mostly by his own self, to which is used as

the coal for the warming fire.

Outside, he feels a chill, and maybe it is winter

but there is no ice, only soft snow,

drifting in the air by strings of love.

Behind me, the horn erupts.

Engines bellow, and the tracks

I walk beside quiver, convulse with excitement

or anxiety. They carry a burden not for me.

The train passes, speeding ahead.

It is not for me.

Only for a moment, brief as spark's life

do I feel the heat of the fire inside,

and assume the engine's passion, its commitment

and I see the slick, black paint on the outside, inviting me.

And then I see the wheels, and I know they'll never stop pushing.

An impressive engineering marvel, years of construction.

A design with no instruction, but plenty of recorded failures.

It will stop soon, and I will hear the crash

from my spot in the snow, huddled in an igloo,

carving angels with my boots.