#11: New York Subway
The subway has a rhythm of its own:
Ta ti-tam ti ti-ti ta ta
A syncopated rattle
Echoing in the bowels of the earth.
Girders hold back the dome of the sky
A steel-and-bolt maze
of subterranean caverns and constructs
Graffiti'd concrete walls
And in every station, ghosts:
Ghosts of conversations and sadness
Ghosts of memories and hope
Ghosts of dreams, of love, of hate
Ghosts of life lived, life neglected
Every smudge and scuff and mark
A carbon footprint of Time.
This is where Icarus' bones washed ashore.