Walking into Tacubaya, a train trains by and
they linger in the sound of big air rolling.
He says it always reminds him of his friend, Michigan--
the last true-to-life hobo who drank when
he wanted to be less than true-to-life, more ether.
They have come to know experiences jointly;
the same bed, the same children, the same train
of unusual circumstances. Seventeen years now
and they have stood in millions of parking lots,
waiting for some gray noise to pass, and still
they stand watching it, as if this time it might
surprise them and de-rail, or take flight,
or even go on forever.