Frank William Finney
Not From Nottingham
On one side of the tracks
you sense the change of scenery:
the bones of branches, then the buds,
then the tents of summer green.
Not so on the other side. There the
chainmail bares its dull, metallic ribs
on the chest of its coarse and hoary hills.
You wake up on a train table among
a pride of purring Lionels.
You turn the dial on the transformer
until the conductor jumps onto the sleepers
with a megaphone to warn the world
that he is NOT from Nottingham.
He effs and blinds to the Plasticville walls,
and drops his darts
on tracks between windmill
and interchange
before shuffling off in a huff
Derealization
I’m slipping on soap
in a vision’s shower.
The tiles look teary
through the steam.
Water rises ankle deep.
Sink and mirror disappear.
Snow is falling on the TV.
Fires are raging in L.A.
Now the kettle wakes
and whistles
just in time
for tea.