Standing on the platform the shiver through me isn’t from the cold.
Ahead lies an endless living tapestry the window unveils every morning. The ordered little houses- row on row on row-
a quiet suburban police station- almost no signs of life-
an orderly cemetery being groomed in the distance-
silent churches with scrap yards- vacant factories-
another parking lot being built- more of the earth being smothered-
and traffic, rolling along beside us invisibly choking the sky-

Above the hospital, concrete Mary coldly staring down,
arms outspread, palms to Heaven,
like a Buddha, a Hindu, open, transcending,
just like the homeless people begging in the streets-

I notice the boarded up windows and trash littered everywhere-
vandalized tombstones- multicolored graffitti- miles of barbed wire-
the large bright sign of the city’s police building, still lit from last night-
now, down into the tunnels- the engineer sounds the howl-
it reverberates with the screeching rails, the squealing wheels-
screaming back from the underground-

Out again into the light- I rise above the prison where
the orange clad men pace round and round and round-
and I ride on- up, over the poisoned water-
muddy clouds billowing up from deep under the surface-
a fog floats above the river-

I pass an abandoned station stop-
part of the city no longer worth stopping for-

And as I leave the train with all the workers
scurrying off to beat the 8 A.M. time clock,
I shake off the shiver that isn’t from the cold…

3/3/95