At Frustration Station, crates
of bad karma get off-loaded,
vats of bile sit in storage, and
tickets turn to paste.
Conductors
have called a halt. Engineers
weep, and tunnels belch hot wind.
Departures and arrivals melt
into one immobile blob.
Turnstiles
turn into empty gun-barrels aimed
at one another. Vermin gnaw
wires of
ambition. Only the fiddler
playing for oily coins is happy.
These faces, these faces, these
faces twist toward scream.
Hans Ostrom, 2012
