We walk in the middle of the road to avoid the chance of bush rats, snakes, lizards, roaches and any other miniature moving phobia. The lamps only power on when they pick up our footsteps, or maybe it’s our heat, perhaps even our scent. We’re walking in darkness until they flicker on, and even the starry sky and half crescent moon can’t give us some light. If a bus came hurtling around the corner, we’re just end up as unseen smears until the morning sun. You wouldn’t even hear our screams, for the sound of crickets are creating white noise. And you can’t beat that.
A face appears in the distance, the nearby lights power down. It’s a knock off Thomas the Tank, leering at us as if it had been waiting all this time. If you attach the face of Thomas to something else, the fun is no longer present, the warmth it typically offers becomes cold hard plastic. Ringo Starr isn’t around, it’s all wrong. It’s been wrong for a long time.
It powers on. It rides down the hill. We try to run. You can’t hear it toot, there are crickets stuffed in it’s chimney. The fat controller rides in the front carriage, but he’s lost control, and all of his clothes.
It’s not so nice to be an unseen smear.