Descend the concrete steps fused with worn gum
Now Dry and Cracked.
Enter the line, wait for the troll to slowly
Give his golden coins, as the rush goes by
That’s another twenty-minute wait
Who shall entertain me?
Saxophoneman works on Tuesdays
His art varies, so bebop, so bossa nova.
Guitarman works on Fridays
Cracked Voice over a dull and uncivil crowd.
Magician is a chance, Mondays or Wednesdays.
If you’re lucky, you get to see the lime disappear.
No matter
Walk Down to the tracks, a vast tunnel
Only given the light of man
-Made products, no sun to guide the way.
Rumble above, Rumble below, as common
As the coo’s of pigeons to the innercity ear
Walk up, check the number on the dirty window
It comes to a stop, grab hold of the silver bar,
walk inside
The World Of Culture
Pimp to the left, Single Mom to the right
A sullen old man, a yuppie on her cellphone
A drug dealer, a queer
A suit and brief case, a drunk
An anarchist, a conformist
An entrepreneur, a procrastinator
The pious, the selfish
The right, the wrong
A sea of Lifestyle and Diversity,
All in front of me
Oh and the Haitian guy driving behind me
Grab my seat, look out the window, let the
World Disappear through the Tunnel.
By Mark Gome
