Sub Ways

We have ridden these old trains
for years, know all the ways
they worm beneath the city,
every turn and station and
abandoned line, like we know

the lines in our faces, those creases
by my eyes when I smile, which
I seldom do anymore. Even the rats
know our peculiar footfalls
and scatter. I can see the light

from the top of the escalator
sifting down like dust of a
brighter galaxy. I gauge my steps
with a meticulous inner precision,
run across the worn tiles to

the turnstiles in the coordinates
of my mind’s melancholic dream.
Then I sense it, first tremor, then
rumble, then screech, and the doors
open. You beckon me All Aboard.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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