deepundergroundpoetry.com
The next train arriving at platform two…
I hold you.
Place my hand on the back
of your troubled head. You
smell of coconut shampoo
and I wonder if your fear
is in your blueprints;
if you’re feral and wild
under your sweater
made of exit signs,
born of complex tunnels
beneath concrete.
Allow me your carriage
in the dark—
your underground tracks,
those tangled subways
allow me
to search your mouth
and brown eyes
and bones
until our pinpoints
become treasure maps
let me
kiss your hand the way they do
in every black and white movie
ever seen
tell you those tropical scents
will drift through benches
coffee cups
crumpled newspapers
trapped
beneath Victorian architecture
that knows how you’re built
that can’t be re-built
that can’t be
re-built
.
.
.
because I hold you
my ink-stained hands
in your ticket stub hair,
knowing how beautiful
it would be to arrive
crush into you
journey to you there
Published 13th Mar 2024
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likes 9
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13th Mar 2024 2:34am
13th Mar 2024 2:10pm
13th Mar 2024 10:09pm
Truly a delightful poem, I love your word choices and turn of phrase and the visions you create for the reader, too many to call out but until our pinpoints become treasure maps is one of those line you wish you had written, very much enjoyed your work. Best Keith, oh and I hope I win the comp not you :D
13th Mar 2024 10:53pm
18th Apr 2024 1:33pm
