A snake with steel skin.
Lights for the labyrinths.
The subway approaches the platform.
Benches exhibit the stain of graffiti;
the concrete floor lay littered
with gum spots.
A man plays a saxophone.
A school group moves through
like frightened minnows.
The aroma of diesel and
damp grime attaches to your skin.
There’s a low frequency rumbling
from mechanical friction.
Newspapers lay twisted in corners.
An old man mumbles then
moves away.
Overhead lights reflect on
tiled walls.
The subway howls to a stop.
Like the front line of a football
team, riders burst onto the
platform.
Elbows and shoulders exchange
unpleasantries.
The doors close.
Roger Singer 