The subway car approaches, light
growing brighter in the tunnel.
Blackness is dismissed to unveil dirty,
industrial bars and the stench of Yankee waste.
Like dogs in a kennel, figures crowd doors,
man cuts off woman to ensure his
primary exit from the miserly tin can
of robotic figurines and unsettling silence.
Somewhere there is a bird singing over the
bodies of spirits taken for a nostalgic cause,
some mission of ghosts and violent desperation,
and the leader smiles from a distance
as small worlds crumple, bit by bit-
like ice caps do from gaseous fire.
As the melted drops turn to thunderous torrents,
so too will the world be engulfed by the
tsunami of yesterday- only uglier.
And the fat figures in the tin can won’t notice.
The only reality plays in earbuds. Mourning
sparrows are trumped by Beleibers.
The Liberated Polyglot