09.10.08
misery carved into our faces
we line the platform
waiting for the train
sunlight happily smiling down
oppressive heat
igniting humidity
as we try desperately to look
tortured to be alive.
I look behind, down the terminal
at the standing masses
stretching for eons
and see decrepit cripples
clutching alms
corpses rotting in the rain
cadavers and bones
strewn like Froebel gifts
dust blasted by dry winds
onto our granite slab
receding into a shallow sea
its frothy surf washing up
the dead.
the train arrives, the doors hiss open
and choking on a sickly sigh
take my step check my watch
quartz hearts resonate with ours
the door gulps closed and we depart.
April 7, 2009 at 11:16 am
“A poem,” said John Ciardi, “is a machine for making choices.” But this poem makes all the choices for us…you tell us, rather than show us, all the values your symbols carry.