THE COMMUTER TRAIN
by John Grey
Baron Frankenstein's head
is buried in an old yellowing
Igor sits beside him, hands fidgeting,
the ones in his large brown bag
Larry Talbot rubs his chin, wonders,
"Did I shave this morning?
Does that even matter?"
Count Dracula is primping in a
combing, adjusting, fiddling,
until he can't see a thing.
Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde
almost didn't make it . . .
a half hour trying to convince
the ticket seller they should
only pay one fare.
The Mummy just wants to
add a momentary doze
to his many centuries of sleep
but the nouveau-frightful,
Jason, Freddy Krueger, and Chucky
are being loud and obnoxious.
And the alien boards suddenly
and violently, tearing
through the ceiling of the train.
"Decrepit mansions not good enough
for you," sneers the butler
from the old dark house.
A gaggle of ogres is ogling
"She can give me orders any time,"
"Tiny out of the way English village"
and the invisible man departs.
The Witch-finder General gets
at seventeenth century superstitious
Various poltergeists detrain at
giant bugs at the 50s stop.
More journey. Another station.
"Fog shrouded Whitechapel in the
screams the conductor
A well-known artist, a member
of the royal family,
a Russian sailor, a Hungarian
butcher, and a Harley Street specialist,
all glance up.
John Grey is an Australian
poet, U.S. resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand,
Poetry Salzburg Review, and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Covert,
Memory Outside the Head, and Guest of Myself are available
through Amazon. Work upcoming in
and International Poetry Review.
Holtzman’s paintings and
collages have appeared in shows at various venues in
Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the
Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember,
but it was in a basement, and she was well received.