The Underground

Sitting in this subway,
The trains never stop,
they rumble on by,
Disturbing the serenity,
of my musty underground.

This is a life line train,
running express,
from alpha to omega,
please stand,
clear of the doors.

There are these moments,
where intellect chokes,
Like John Bonham,
in a trashed hotel room.

In-between the stops,
I can close my eyes,
count to 10,
and make,
the everyday monsters,

The man in the white suit,
plays blues harp,
while I collect change,
and wipe blood and dirt,
from my hands.

I am not the owner,
of this imaginary space,
it belongs to the man in white,
or whomever taught him,
to teach me,
esoteric lessons.

radio playing,
and making eye contact,
are strictly forbidden.

In a moment,
we'll sneak cigarettes,
and turn cartwheels,
in defiance of laws,
that try to govern us,
this is how we dream.

as the third rail sparks,
free until the sizzle,
and nothing.
it always escapes,
between the trains of thought.

in the direction of travel,
doors open,
doors open on,
the doors.

later we will build,
for the forgotten,
and scream the names,
we used to be called,
it's been a long time,
since they've closed this line.
we both keep running,
never minding the gaps.


David Hargarten
David (Buddha309) Hargarten is a poet and the host of the regular Chicago literary spectacle, Waiting for the Bus, an open mic for poets, singer/songwriters, and storytellers.