UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
She was a pretty face in the desert down there by the train,
a rarity, fumbling for her way home.
“this train goes home alright baby, but not that way,
not to your home.”
“A home’s a home.”
Company comes from every stranger with a faded shirt and a glint
but she didn’t care anymore when she got sorely up into the train,
a gunmetal gray bullet, an iron womb flying down the barrel,
and she didn’t remember the last wish she’d made
when she sat in the turbulent light and closed her eyes
and watched everything she’d ever known rush past her out of her life forever.
So I’ll stay here one more night--
this is where all my dreams died anyway--
and the moon will go down
and the sun will come up
and I’ll pack my bag with the pieces of nothing that remain.
I’ll leave alone and broke
tired, empty and heartbroken
like you always wanted me to leave, anyway.
Chris is a 25 year old high school English teacher and tutor who learned to
write with his friends and classmates in California. He's worked and quit
every kind of job imaginable and quit them all because he prefers writing to
making lattes, data entry, delivering mail, selling high end pens, fixing music
boxes, or anything else he's done. He is currently living in Harlem.
© 2006 Underground Voices