Hollow

The station is crowded like a fishbowl,

benches of stony coral and rotten planks

sagging under human dialogue.

The light is dead,

disintegrating in particles that sway

in drunken waves to the ground.

Underfoot they gasp out a last prayer

and die between grooved feet.

The station grows weary of the dirt and noise,

the mites shuffling off trains,

the screeching of their teeth as they munch stalks of gum.

The station wishes it could drown in an oily sea,

trains bobbing and backstroking,

rusty doors slammed shut forever

as the black waves lull them to sleep.

 

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either reading or writing. Her work has appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Magnolia’s Press, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals and will appear in the upcoming editions of A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, and Perhaps I’m Wrong About the World. You can find her here: http://coldbloodedlives.blogspot.com

Tagged poetry