The last train is nearly due
|
the underground is closing soon
|
in the dark deserted station
|
restless in anticipation
|
a man waits in the shadows.
|
|
His restless eyes leap and scratch
|
at all that they can touch or catch
|
hidden deep within his pocket
|
safe within his silent socket
|
he holds his colored crayon.
|
|
Now from the tunnel's stony womb
|
the carriage rides to meet the groom
|
and opens wide and welcome doors
|
but he hesitates then withdraws
|
deeper in the shadows
|
|
And the train is gone suddenly
|
on wheels clicking silently
|
like a gently tapping litany
|
and he holds his crayon rosary
|
tighter in his hand
|
|
Now from his pocket he quickly flashes
|
the crayon on the wall he slashes
|
deep upon the advertising
|
a single-worded poem comprised of
|
- four letters
|
|
And his heart is laughing, screaming, pounding
|
the poem across the tracks rebounding
|
shadowed by the exit light
|
his legs take their ascending flight
|
to seek the breast of darkness and be suckled by the night.
|
|
-----------------
|
A Poem on the Underground
|
Paul Simon |