Cate Blanchett appears in coveralls
at the throttle of a steam locomotive
wailing through a crossing.
Cate seems perplexed.
She's perplexed about the young,
toothy, wide-eyed smiles
streaming through floodgates
onto the tracks.
Cate's freight is running late.
A pharmacy is going out of business.
Cate qua Bob Dylan is the pharmacist
toddling toward a late model sedan
in an empty parking lot.
The borders of the parking lot are hidden.
Spider-veined cheeks bend over
a weathered pew
in a withering rural chapel.
The pastoral setting is unsettling.
Cate performs a brief aria.
The congregation is in awe.
There are cows and chickens.
Crows in the distance.
Cate joins a group
of bespectacled global warmers
chasing sidecars like sacraments
at a local watering hole.
Spitoonias festoon the rest rooms.
The last call comes too late
for the hangers-on
up to no good in the village square.
Cate is among them.
They will be included in a groundswell
along with the children of the night
who most evenings
instead of being nestled all snug
can be found crisscrossing the moor
in search of the latest Potterism.
Cate as Harry, perplexed.
DVDs of Cate's performances
are being ripped by the thousands.
