The Metro

The days
are a great subway
train
and I wait
in the station, sitting
on a chipped green bench.
When the great
silver train roars up, the masses
flock to its
doors, so fast
they are a blur.
The train leaves, and
leaves me behind, wandering
the empty
platforms.
I am so
alone; even the ghosts
that would have
stayed
were sucked up by
the wind vortex the train
created
as it blasted off
down the tracks.

Oh, you've left me
here with the
music still
playing
in my head -
the flutes and whistles
warbling and the
violins thrumming
among the
fairy lights
from long ago.

But the bricks
are gray
here in this
labyrinth of
past, and
the mist is
sighing
its way among
the turnstiles.
And the moss is
growing.
And everyone
else is
far
away
in warmer climes.