A man has chained himself to the train tracks!
There’s no arguing with him. He’s not protesting anything.
This is not about Tobacco, not about Big Oil. This is not the War on Fur. Reporters point their mikes to his parched lips. “All I want is to be honest with myself, he says and adds: “I am in favor of everything.”
Sally Pierce ran out of her house for this, the latest disaster. A tragedy to be sure, and still the dishes must be done.
Meanwhile the neighbors beg him to relent, unlock, escape. Already they are preparing statements: The trash went on Wednesday. We are, all of us, very religious people.
But this train cannot be delayed by good intentions: the man is due to be crushed at a quarter past noon. In the meantime, his mouth is full of dust and praise for tube socks and carbon monoxide. He has seen up several ladies’ skirts and praised what he saw there.
A rumbling is heard: the train is coming. The reporters step back and cameras are lifted.
The train: what it is, what it is, what it is.
There’s a man on the tracks who loves the world and he’s not going to stop till it knows.