Moving Poetry: Stories in Transit

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Moving Poetry: Stories in Transit

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The Walls as Seen from a Train Station: South San Francisco

I wondered if he had felt sick

Because the walls along the tracks were

Gashed with dents, soaked in gray

Neglect.

I wondered if he had felt joy,

Taking and turning them into a toy

His hands and his cheeks splattered with splotches

Of salty blues and butterscotches,

Ah, like a God,

He’d colored it gone, I wondered,

I wondered if he had felt sad,

An artist like he was simply a man.

A sleeping city shone in his wake,

His wounded body veiled in paint.

 

 

Underground: San Jose Diridon

It is not a one way ticket to forget.

There are transfers, there is waiting,

And underground a quiet debating

Which train to take, which way

Or to wait another day.

Softly, the sodium lamps

Warmed the light (though not the air)

For passengers just waiting there,

Their arms crossed at the screens,

Weighing the costs and weighing their means–

Ah, the ones without forevers

They’re destined to remember.