Grey street corner
A frozen room
A dying moon
Veins bulge upwards out of your rugged hands, criss-crossed with lines,
Pumping hardworking blood around your body,
Your blood, my blood,
The musty smell
weightless in the air.
Mohawk standing like a battle flag,
Darkened eyeliner, metal-cut nose and lips,
Flesh carved into words exposed on his bare back,
Low slung belt, with chain heavy jeans.
The tracks scream out beneath the train.
Shot down at dawn
The dew still plucking at the mud.
The lions stare
and burn, burn,
to the smoke in the sky,
burn, burn, burn,
the night’s a wolf’s cry,
The station moves around me,
Different people, different purpose.
I Lie. On the dusty floor.
Stretched out, while those around me
Cheer. Or cry. Or scream.
And raise their fists aloft.