The drum goes rat-a-tat
a steady beat.
The guitar clangs, screams, and squeals
sometimes slowly
sometimes shrill.
The conductor gave me earplugs.
The tunnel is made of resin
with flying magnets.
I lie on a board,
slats on either side of my head.
A blanket to cover me,
it’s freezing here.
The conductor announces
how long each riff will last.
Poem by: Lucy Sage
Image by: Adam Strong
Lucy Sage began writing poetry at a young age. Born in Philadelphia, she subsequently lived in the Philippines and Nigeria while her father worked for the United Nations. She attended boarding school in England in the mid-sixties but dropped out of high school in 1969 to live in San Francisco. After waitressing and finally earning her degrees, she worked for politicians for 30 years. In addition to poetry, she likes riding her bike, painting, and exploring cities. Her poems have been published in Underwood Press, The Closed Eye Open, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, and Quail Bell, among others. She currently lives in Harrisburg, PA.
Backwards Trajectory 