In high gear

She coughs in the dark

The door cracks open

Cringing,

The light leading through

Into the hall

Illuminating nothing,

Just the curved rails

And splintered stairs

Alone,

She says she is

A cigarette lit

Lancing the darkness

Like a witch’s

Wand

The music comes

Like bars to a cage

Almost creaks and groans

Chains rattling

There is music, too,

In her head

That nobody hears

The drip and slap

Of rain water

Melting snow

From a passing season

Already lost

She has dust and oil

For blood,

And bleeds it forever

The river laps

Distant motorcycles

Vibrate under her

Like old lovers

There are moods

Budding in her

Like sour flowers

And dripping oil

Like blood

Into a dented pan

She coughs in the dark

The baton waves

Like the arm of a speedometer

Frozen in high speed

She sitting

On the edge of her seat

Roaring through the dark

Without moving an inch.