The Subway Terminal
I was here once.
In a place where there were no signs
No maps, No landmarks
Yet permanently embedded with the remains of all
who had passed
A grease-stained Chinese take-out box
A 10-pack of Ice Mint Marlboro cigarettes
The lingering scent of a divorced woman's Chanel No. 5
Scintillating with the perspiring brow
of a man who had spent a long day at a construction site
No lambent light needed to illuminate
the heavy yearning of the draft that
Whistled erratically through the cracks, bringing with it the past
The sound of aching ligaments and a lazy alcoholic's breath
The silver laugh of a child, the sound of a man's spit against a trash can, the light scent of lustful adultery, the constant
rhythm of shoes to pavement, no time to stop
The screech of wheels to metal
grinding
to a halt
Constantly running
a race never won
Till death takes all
And only mere ghosts of those who passed remain here
Relics of days bygone.
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