Lost in thought when the train passes my stop,
I hear a voice, “This is the end of the line,
‘Last stop in Harlem, where the sun don’t shine.”
Doors open to a threatening backdrop,
Each sound has an echo. My heels hammer
The pavement. Sometimes I forget to breathe,
Aware of night animals, monsters that teethe
On witless waifs like me, for their supper.
I am nowhere that I have been before,
The subway exit, quiet as a gun,
Street intersection lights flash for no one,
Graffiti slapped on every boarded door,
Cries for attention, more than an attack,
Somewhere nearby, the grinding of a stone.
A train pulls in like bone scraping on bone.
I hear the high pitched shrieking on the track.
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