WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO GRAND? BY PHOEBE VANDUSEN

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

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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

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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

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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