My Cobalt Railroad Hammock

Erika Dickerson, January, 4, 2008

Never loved dirty windows
Slightly glistening self portraits
With backdrops of
Route maps
Never used.

Graffiti-covered ads
Became child’s play of
Crayoned canvases

Culprits expanded their
Artistry across vulnerable doors

Defenseless metal

Embraced
In a cross between Jackson St.
And janky rhymes

I watched
Doors voluntarily open
Allowing first hand experience
Of chocolate brown
Ridged floors

Cozy two-seaters repeatedly
Offered company-
But I was never lonely.

The dim lights hugging
The ceiling while images became
Black and gray through windows
Were my companions

I dubbed my sanctuary holy
Cleansed it with fresh paper
And new ink while it roared
Hushed hallelujahs at its
Christening

Invited a diverse congregation of
Inherited pigments to be
My inspiration every
Time the doors of my locomotive
Shrine opened
The endless hall leading to my
Baptismal pool
Smelled of strangers
Yellow puddles left by
Forgotten souls
Walked with me-
Straddling my steps. 

My hammock doesn’t swing
Left to right tranquilities,
Humming fairytale endings;

It reeks of foul smells
And karaoke singers I
Tip with handclaps-
‘cause they’re skills aren’t quite
worth my green paper

My hammock drifts memory to ink,
Stamping its tracks in saturated journals
I no longer write childish poems
Of ‘the color blue’
I’ve learned to tell icebergs of
Blue skies instead.