In Transit

Lionel Kearns in old tram car

I could tell you of events so complex
they would turn your eyeballs into pie crust,
clog your ears with seaweed,
glue your nervous fingers into a sticky fist.
But what of that now? I am here
on this rickety perch where years ago
I would sit quietly writing you a poem.
Now I am doing it again, perhaps
writing the same poem. Everything
grows and explodes and remains the same
as I jump out of my dying body just
in time to see it again, the world!