Charon

He plods, and asks, for ‘tickets please’

beneath  this old train roof;

alarms are hanging from the eves

- and passengers are safe.

People turn and smile and look

(outside, a shocking sea)

this train is traveling to a stop

wherever we will be

and, in each carriage, swinging doors

so I could saunter through

and talk or pay, or sleep or play,

or curl in my cocoon?

The driver knows the route we take

but only he can see

our spiral west into the dark

on a ticket for today.

Call

Thank you for holding.

We may never know what’s going on

at the very centre of our Earth

where, four thousand miles straight down,

zooms a point, indivisible, hot.

Thanks for continuing to hold.

At least old Mozart’s a tuneful balm

but, sadly, there’s a potential burst,

a chance of magma time:

to do my best or to do my worst.

Thanks for holding.