Jon M. Anzalone
168 Park Avenue
Huntington, NY 11743
917.568.5032
jon.anzalone@gmail.com

     Boarded the train. Empty. Just a conductor and a man conversing with the cashier in the dining car. Asked for the salad and potatoes and sat down on a bar stool with a glittery red cushion by the window. There are farm houses outside. It's winter and there is laundry hanging up outside to dry. Every house.
     Received meal. A dish of pickles and French fries.
     Leave the dining car. Wait, thank the cashier. Takk fyrir? No, spasibo, no, paldies, no. Multumesc. Mulţumesc. Mool-tsoo-mesk. Eight lions. Who is his friend?
     Hallway's anchored to one side of the train car with private cabins along the other side. It's long and narrow and it feels funny to walk back and forth with or against the direction of motion. Back and forth. Always wanted to ride on a train like this. Old and metal. Coal heat, fire burning through the air vents.
     In a three-bunk cabin. Just me. Climb to the top, climb down. Under the covers. Do the light switches work? It's night and dark. I fall asleep.

     I wake up. It's not dark. Go to the dining car. It's gone. Pass some hours.

     Little paisley ghosts start swimming.