A Poem On The Underground Wall

The last train is nearly due,

The underground is closing soon,

And 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,

And hidden deep within his pocket,

Safe within its silent socket,

He holds a 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 quick he 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.


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