Sleeping on the Underground
The chairs here disclose dead skin cells
and beyond the gaze of someone almost new
they take the line six times a night.
There’s a crack in the window.
But outside there is only tar and sleep
and inside too hopeful spines bent against rigid arms
Next to scratched heads and imaginations of vanilla ice cream
or endless mown lawns
that exists above and
cannot permeate the layers below.
They are the stayers
the keepers of pretend time and yellow lines
where they exist for now.