by James Tate

    I sit on the tracks，

    a hundred feet from

    earth， fifty from the

    water. Gerald is

    inching toward me

    as grim， slow， and

    determined¹ as a

    season， because he

    has no trade and wants

    none. It's been nine months

    since I last listened

    to his fate， but I

    know what he will say：

    he's the fire hydrant

    of the underdog.

    When he reaches my

    point above the creek²，

    he sits down without

    salutation， and

    spits profoundly out

    past the edge， and peeks³

    for meaning in the

    ripple⁴ it brings. He

    scowls⁵. He speaks： when you

    walk down any street

    you see nothing but

    coagulations

    of shit and vomit⁶，

    and I'm sick of it.

    I suggest suicide；

    he prefers murder，

    and spits again for

    the sake of all the

    great devout⁷ losers.

    A conductor's horn

    concerto⁸ breaks the

    air， and we， two doomed⁹

    pennies on the track，

    shove off and somersault

    like anesthetized

    fleas¹⁰， ruffling¹¹ the

    ideal locomotive

    poised¹² on the water

    with our light， dry bodies.

    Gerald shouts

    terrifically as

    he sails downstream like

    a young man with a

    destination. I

    swim toward shore as

    fast as my boots will

    allow； as always，

    neglecting to drown.

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