Compressor

Edward Hopper, Night Windows

Compressor

The night Brisbane drowned
& sharks cruised down main streets
my shadowy young Muse noticed
we were in the wrong city.

The German train we were on
was not going to my destination,
Frank’s Ford, nor hers.

The wrong station flashed by.
We got off at the next,
the usual grey pedestrian zone
filled with strangers & angst,
found a taxi driving mechanic
who’d charge more because
it was a weekend or else
get us a compressor.

It looked like an engine
because it was. Called it compressor,
he said, to trick the taxman.
Anyway, it would get us there,
& I sensed the Muse smile.

Fact is, at the earth’s poetic
centre you’d be both
incinerated & weightless.

[another poem based on a dream I had early this year]

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~ by Peter Lach-Newinsky on September 19, 2011.

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