Subway

The wind sharked in through the tube train window
and turned the empty Subway sandwich bag
into a fish. It swam from passenger face
to passenger face to handrail to door to floor
to advertising panel to passenger face.
It was magic. It was medieval.
It was a no-jointed hero lost in its own skeleton.
The low rent American Beauty indulgence
was
interrupted by the reality of a man
with pork scratching eyebrows
swearing at himself, telling his chest
it didn’t belong to be here anymore.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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