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, 

past-expiration-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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