Written by Randy W. Plym
on platform eleven
people stretch into gum strings;
heat throbs, smoke curls, magma rises
like the whole station will –
Bahnhof people, shelf-kept people,
people waiting for their number
like bingo cards without bingo.
The edges have always melted first;
the hem has always frayed first.
A man argues with the wall
while pigeons eat pizza and die
and teenagers line up for falafel.
People that language forgot,
people like jokes without punch lines,
a man with a toy train labeled
“not for sale” rolls his marbles
in a lasagna tray, rolls his –
The gum snaps.
Saint Paul falls from his horse. A man claps
with his feet. The vending machine steams
my macchiato, and the world
is as it’s always been: upside down.
Mothers tighten their children’s hoods,
a thousand tickets for a thousand destinations.
Text © Randy W. Plym
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