Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!

underground train


every day we
feed our tokens into the turnstile
slot machines for the chance
to hang like ornaments
suspended
from the hand-straps
of the meteor-rocket subway line


herded
into standing room only
we sway on our platform shoes
eye-ball to eye-ball
with the advertising poster
that extols the virtues of a
pink flamingo land
in acknowledgment
there lurks the green-eyed
monster alligator
underneath the sunflower seeds
that crackle under our feet


in the back of the car
young punks rattle the bones
a throw of dice
as a grizzled old man who sleeps
keeps time with his tapping bunny slippers
twitches, moans and jerks
wakes up muttering
"it ain't vanilla!"
to stare red-rimmed into the past
thousand yards


we all for a moment blink
when dark flashes into the neon life
of a terminal station

Written by Wordancer

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