Sitting cross-legged on the cold wooden bench,
Paint chips flaking from the touch of my hand,
I stare across the track at the graffiti on the wall,
In a vain attempt to decipher the gang language.
I hear a soft rumble and my eyes and thoughts drift
Toward the dark abyss into which I will soon travel.
Has the red train come to whisk me away?
No, it's just the thunderous call of heaven
Muffled by the concrete roof of this artificial cavern.
My gaze returns to the blemished wall
And my eyes ponder the enigma once more,
As I remove a splinter from my hand.
Jeremy Andrew Miller