12: Where

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.


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