Spencer Linford

A Walk to the Train

One leaden morning, my joints sang a song they would soon refine.
Outside my cell, on the racetrack of pedestrian life, a wet clock rusts and freezes.

“Do you know what time it is now?”
Cars pass, pass, pass.
The compressed air whipping by,
Beating my brain with a falling sense of urgency.
It is fast renewed at each receding vehicle,
And I wonder who carries you.

You: soft, relaxed, supple, eager mind.

I ask myself, have I missed my ride?
Taught tendons fray in this relentless march.

Me-bumbling now- wandering streets,
quarter this, cigarette that, do you have a dollar for coffee?
There is no dwelling in this spurious scab,

For us it is timeless, 
timeless as the ugly scar it leaves.

Who sits there, in the lap of the veiled woman?
They are swaddled; waiting for fodder.

Nearby, men toil behind corrugated ramparts of aluminum.

Ligaments ripped, I can no longer move and I watch as the workmen break,

Sucking marrow from bleached bones.

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