On the dystopian train, I'm the conductor.
You're the passenger. No, sorry, I'm the passenger
and you're the conductor, you want to cut
off my hands. Before we were on the train
you needed me to need you bad.
You made me a manor out of blue
linen, built us a fire in the rain, fixed me
a drink of red bitters, fed me whole wheat
sourdough, popped me onto your big pink
motorcycle, it went vroom vroom! But now,
we're on the train. I'm no longer convenient,
you cut off my hands, your eyes turn into
titanium tokens. You end sentences as you begin them.
I'm the passenger, always in transit, with my no-hands
I wait patiently in the hallway. let me into your sleeping
carriage. let me introduce myself again