3rd Street Station

 

 

The next train east

arrives in fourteen minutes.

Here’s a man among us

wild-eyed and hopping

with enemies in each direction.

He spins

on a heel and kicks back

at the rubbish bin

before leaning forward

to stare at someone

only he can see. For all

we know

he could be fighting

Wounded Knee again:

he’s shouting at the sunshine,

punching space,

while space hits back

so he slips

to the platform’s edge

where he balances

on one foot and leans

across the rails

with his arms spread wide

and he’s swimming

in air for a moment

until he wheels back

to dry land. He crouches

and takes

aim at the invisible, stiffens

his limbs in a warrior’s

pose, and fires off

a cry that serves notice

he’s ready to ride bareback

until the inspectors come

for the ticket

he doesn’t have money to buy.

 

David Chorlton


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