... On a bit of a New York roll at the mo... :)) K xx

CORTLANDT STREET


The swaying of the slowing train
makes my mind and belly lurch as,
through serpentine dark,
an ill-lit gloom approaches.

Pace halts to a funereal shudder,
the “badumm” of the rails a sullen mantra
louder with the slackening speed.

We enter the vagueness of an eery
disused station, its wall tiles barely white
enough to pierce the shroud of dust;
charred timbers like spent matchsticks
litter long-abandoned platforms;
half-opened boxes, girders stockpiled
roundabout all lacking sense of purpose.
The air thick with silence.

I picture the muscular pride of cranes
and clout of heavy construction
loudly rending skies above,
pledging radiant renewal;

but what’s here below’s cadaverous,
laid out in shock, still breathing
smoke and choking back
the suddenness of death,
mummifying the unthinkable.

The boy opposite’s unflinching,
ears plugged with an indifferent beat
as we pick up speed and edge towards
new darknesses ahead.