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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