A carnival of shoes, tracked and true.
  False to travelers who wander aloud,

soft in their thoughts, catatonic in the breakfast sun.
  Shade in the tunnels, the mud-soaked margins,

midway inside the mad and quickened place,
  carried away — a steelpan artist!

Scientist of twing: ba-da-ting, ba-da-ting—relief
  throbs the green and tiled halls.

Cornered by Trinidad, alert and bible high,
  below him a mutt and a Slurpee cup.

Plates of bystanders—a Greek salad of hurry.
  Calmly the former merchant marine,

deserted, he calls out the chorus—sublingual sounds,
  dog eared by feet and the rumbling train.

2 responses to “Subway

  1. A fine poem. On a third reading I begin to see it as itself. It doesn’t tell a story, report what happened in the past. It is a story as read, happening now, in being read. Yeah it needs reference to things outside it, but what it makes of them is now. I put aside trying to figure what it means and let it be what it is. You do this well.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Craig Brandis (aka Burl Whitman)

    This is a great insight into what a durable poem is supposed to do! I’m glad it fell on one of mine. Thanks bro.


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