I sit on the tracks, <br />a hundred feet from <br />earth, fifty from the <br />water. Gerald is <br />inching toward me <br />as grim, slow, and <br />determined as a <br />season, because he <br />has no trade and wants <br />none. It's been nine months <br />since I last listened <br />to his fate, but I <br />know what he will say: <br />he's the fire hydrant <br />of the underdog. <br /> <br />When he reaches my <br />point above the creek, <br />he sits down without <br />salutation, and <br />spits profoundly out <br />past the edge, and peeks <br />for meaning in the <br />ripple it brings. He <br />scowls. He speaks: when you <br />walk down any street <br />you see nothing but <br />coagulations <br />of shit and vomit, <br />and I'm sick of it. <br />I suggest suicide; <br />he prefers murder, <br />and spits again for <br />the sake of all the <br />great devout losers. <br /> <br />A conductor's horn <br />concerto breaks the <br />air, and we, two doomed <br />pennies on the track, <br />shove off and somersault <br />like anesthetized <br />fleas, ruffling the <br />ideal locomotive <br />poised on the water <br />with our light, dry bodies. <br />Gerald shouts <br />terrifically as <br />he sails downstream like <br />a young man with a <br />destination. I <br />swim toward shore as <br />fast as my boots will <br />allow; as always, <br />neglecting to drown.<br /><br />James Tate<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/success-comes-to-cow-creek/
