Читать книгу The Underground Man - Jasen Sousa - Страница 4

It’s alone

a gentle baby blue bicycle

chained to a “No Parking Street Cleaning” sign

with a missing front wheel

and a seat that has been worn down

so much that the fibers are sticking up

like hair on cold skin.

It’s alone

a book left halfway open text down

somewhere on a Boston bench

surrounded by peeling Green Monstah

paint staring down between

shifting planks at finger nails, nip bottles,

and grasshoppers.

It’s alone

in a room no one will ever enter

a cigar box filled with passionate

letters sealed in stamped envelopes

never to be read by the one

they were intended for.

It’s alone

in a subway tunnel on

an early Saturday morning. A translucent image

appears in a tinted window of a broken

down train while others

continue on to their destinations.