Urban Body

These days I am
a traffic jam of stuff

Topside, somewhere under brown and silver hair, sits my brain
Inside it's own congruent bungalow, with a couple of windows for light
Dutifully manned by my own personal Lily Tomlin, 
sitting in a old wooden swivel chair, her legs hugging like twins.

Laboriously plugging and unplugging crisscrossed phone lines ,
playfully fidgeting with the neck of her blouse and batting her eyes.
Doing her utmost to keep up with the ever coming calls.

Nervy Autobahns are bumper to bumper with shocks of pain, panic 
cold  or hunger or elaborately planned or mere random thoughts

I see the hairs on my arm rise erect in the cold Autumn breeze, then
it's, "Cross legs; sweat lightly behind the knees; 
now salivate and chew.
Sneeze, sneeze again, now sigh"

Veins and arteries each run in their one-way directions
and see my pumping heart in an aged Grand Central Station
with groined vaults and corridors slathered in cream tinted subway tiles.

Inbound and outbound trains heralded
from old cone-shaped loudspeakers in crackly-muffled voices.

My departure signs buzz with flipping letters
spelling out new destinations after each burst of steam and departure.

Then dinner arrives, dumped right there on the freight platform, for all to see.
The firemen shovel and feed it towards the fire below, 
through caverns too dark to see a hand in front of your face.

Ah, yes. Someone needs to take out the trash. 

OK, let me get my slippers.