(P. Simon)
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The last train is nearly due,
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The underground is closing soon,
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And in the dark deserted station,
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Restless in anticipation,
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A man waits in the shadows.
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His restless eyes leap and scratch,
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At all that they can touch or catch,
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And hidden deep within his pocket,
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Safe within its silent socket,
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He holds a colored crayon.
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Now from the tunnel's stony womb,
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The carriage rides to meet the groom,
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And opens wide and welcome doors,
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But he hesitates, then withdraws
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Deeper in the shadows.
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And the train is gone suddenly
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On wheels clicking silently
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Like a gently tapping litany,
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And he holds his crayon rosary
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Tighter in his hand.
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Now from his pocket quick he flashes,
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The crayon on the wall he slashes,
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Deep upon the advertising,
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A single worded poem comprised
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Of four letters.
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And his heart is laughing, screaming, pounding
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The poem across the tracks rebounding
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Shadowed by the exit light
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His legs take their ascending flight
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To seek the breast of darkness and be suckled by the night.
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A Poem On The Underground Wall
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| Art Garfunkel |
