under the corse skreetching of metal track and steel
you hear the muddle of an old man's voice bellow and speal.
he stands with a jolt on the south bound "L."
wide eyed for a moment as he recalls an old tale.
then passing forward to the cubbie benieth a seat
withdrawling the bottle he'd tucked away so neat.
"last stop." scquealches a muffled voice from the corner
and in an everlasting moment two doors open with a shudder.
> running with "low light" from here on out
pealing from your seat with hesitation no doubt
back alleys and black side streets,
dimly lit posts and make-shift houses with no heat. <
..slouch down in a corner and pray no "passer byes"
as you drift off from exaustion with no tears left to die.
