print previewback MICHAEL MCMAHON
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. 
