← v13n2, Fall 2014
Poetry · Volume 13, Number 2

Cleopatra in the Club Car

Cleopatra in the Club Car

She doesn’t seem to mind

The quick-tongued snake

Coiled about her neck

Like a morning glory vine.

Animated shadows

Of her own transparent face

Tremble like a grimace

In the wet train window.

She doesn’t seem to mind

The unknown hand easing

Her down on the tufted seat,

Tracing the swell of her nylons.

The lounge grows dark

Except for the clatter of light

That plays on her eyes

At crossings and lonely switchyards.