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Prayer
Lined up like momentary stars,
Hand to mouth they feed off the blinding blue and white tiles, blue and white lights and
Dust forming the boxes that spoon them.
Boxes that shut out some of the light, and some of the chill. Not all.
Hollow-eyed little faces, sexless and without age are lined with time that they have too much of now, in this little
Corner of the Universe.
The above-ground people. Lost in a cocoon of other places and other thoughts and anywhere that is not here,
See nothing. Only raise their noses in confusion, as if they had stepped in something, and then stepped out of it again, without realizing it was all around them.
Boxes and silence line this white tiled aisle of nothingness.
Lined up like rats about to be hit by subwayfs angry tide, they sleep. Sometimes shifting in the discomfort of yesterdayfs dust and Mos Burger wrappings, they seem to be lost in a cacophony of filth.
Silence. Makers of this ugly din, glide silently by them in the dance of Monday morning peak hour chaos. Every Monday morning peak hour is the same.
They wander up and down the aisles, being careful not to step on the boxes they canft see.
There is an exit behind them, in front of them, to the side, there are exits everywhere - Seibu, Seibu East, East, West, South, Tobu North South East and West.
There are exits everywhere for them.
Momentary stars. Next week they will be gone, taken forcibly from their momentary shelter.
The week after they will be back again.
| Posted by Matt at 16:20 /writing # |