ON THE FOUR TRAIN
TO THE ENDS OF THE MOON

by Rob Cook

 

 

In the boy’s hand
the cell phone sleeping,
a tiny animal.

He found it
this morning curled
inside his coat pocket.

When he places it
against his ear, does
the animal plant its eggs?

When the boy presses it
deeper, can he hear
its brain trembling?

Can he hear the man named
Arturo sitting beside him
with the same animal?

The man speaks into
its hide about his own
thinning and incoherence:

I scared away most of that
que paso critter, and I swear
to my dead father making the dirt grin,

I swear I only hated once,
but for my next relationship
I’ll hire a carnation.

The man yells
into the animal’s mouth,
and then its eyes.

The boy shares his grammar school
secrets, his fingers tracing
the lights where the animal listens.

Watch how he pets it.
Watch how he soothes it for the day
it will be boiled and cut open as meat.

 

 

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