Underneath Boston. Maverick station,
screeches of brakes and sparks flying off trains.
Being no believer in reincarnation,
I somehow trust in relaying my strains.
Starts you can make with machines are beating
one's wildest ideas of what might exist.
To be sure, this New Year's I received your greeting --
my name was something like fourth on the list.
Oh, there's no tragedy -- nor is there sensation,
things coming with ease will go with ease.
Outbound train, Maverick station.
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
Talk of backtracking or resuscitation --
nonchalant even if somewhat perplexed.
Boston. Blue line. Maverick station.
Airport will be next.
March 2000