Chupacabra

Chupacabra

Or the tram in the night: Pulling from one shoulder of darkness around the neck of night the tram is lit by its own brilliant white emptiness. It will be some time before it reaches the other shoulder, for the neck of night is heavy and unbending.

Windows shiver and dash between resting trees as many lives sleep and slumber. The hour is late for its own party and no one has quite caught up. Hollow tram seats rattle for no one and the conductor is little more than an elderly owl that found an open window once. But has yet to find it again. Were there any passengers, giving out tickets would have been a hoot.

Hoary light splashes into the night-time as the tram wheezes around the neck. It is out collecting dreams that have risen unknowing from hot bodies. Within hushed rooms, bodies lie alone, doubled, occasionally trebled and here and there more than that. However much the bodies may lean into one another, spooning and buffooning through the hours, the dreams remain separate.

Ceilings do not contain them, nor walls, doors or windows. The dreams are their own currency and the clasped hands of twilight their vault. The tram is fast in heist, tearing through the bank of willowy reminiscence and future song, gathering, collecting, with a hunger that tugs at the soul strings.

By the full understanding of daybreak, all of our dreams will be forgotten. As the glow comes from the sun, the tram light will be deposed. As tired morning people fill the metal caverns, the dreams will already have been reconciled. I cannot speak of the driver; few indeed have seen the driver. The owl conductor was not surprised upon entering the modest engine room, such as it is, to report on the lack of fares.

Meanwhile, first light inking in the outlines of the city, bread hungry pigeons are outflown by a determined song thrush giddy on its own chorus.