Encased in a steamy afternoon underground
silently we stood waiting and listening
as motes drifted down the stairwell
for the sound of our train -- any train --
in the echoes of the tunnels beside us.
We heard our own silence
and a dripping on the tracks
that marked time and
in its unnerving cadence more
than the time we waited
so that we became restive together
and disturbed, glancing up
at the dusty beams and thinking as
dog pack, bee swarm, fish school,
training our ears and resolving our hearts,
our common metabolism,
until we heard the distant squeak
and the local arrived with the usual grind
and the smell of tunnel air pushed through,
and we walked on, and sat, or stood
with our eyes closed, rocking with relief.
~~~~~~~~~~
Douglas Logan
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