A warm, humid night,

The witching hour nigh,

the Old Boy plods into a

train station.

 

The train on the way back

is now arriving. 

 

A pleasant jingle, saturated

with the artificial chimes that ring

through empty halls and tunnels.

 

Through the air a shrill hiss

and penetrating scream of brakes.

 

O great metal snake,

how does life taste, 

as the dictator of 

precise time and airy speed?

 

I haven’t the seconds, 

nor the minutes, 

nor the hours. 

 

A thrum as brakes release.

 

TALK!

 

The impudent child within shows itself

For mere seconds.

 

A satisfying clonk as brakes reattach.

The minutes are my life,

Yet now they mean nothing. 

There are others in front, others in back

But time’s iron fist moves them like 

Tantalus’ fruit,

and never may we converse.

 

The air speaks dully, and remains 

in my wake, so the next time

I walk my cycle, 

the same air gives me a wave 

once more. 

 

Pens.

Thank you.

 

With a clank

It goes, leaving behind

a small mushroom of stale air.