On A Train to Shangri-La

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People’s voices move through air
Like flies as I notice the ten hands
Of my wristwatch.
My clothes, wet from rain,
Smell like the shoulders
Of factory workers on Friday
Waiting in line to check out,
Their eyebrows thick with ash,
Their necks stiff like old doors,
Lips like canyons viewed from the moon.
My throat, dry and ceramic,
Resembles the store on the corner
Of Main Street, where an old woman
Tells stories of the past to anyone
Who listens, where a child once bragged
About becoming mayor.
I hear the distant bells
Of your voice.
My knees become gold.
I open your hand-written note.
I board a beam of light.
I am coming to find you.

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