Joshua D. Kalscheur
MIND THE GAP
a quarter-pounder, a swanky
lad speaking Queen's English,
the Spanish girl wielding short, cropped
hair and a baguette, two boxed up
babies latched onto the backs
of two gypsies, a blonde bloke
measuring the tilt of his cap,
all of them swallowed whole by an old,
molding oval, vaulting into the darkness.
Every two minutes,
light again, a rush
of recycled air and the reminder
of French verbs, the reminder
of garlic's potency,
dry hands maneuvering
through purses, pointer fingers
searching for page three of The Sun .
Then always the mix of shuffling feet -
high pitched heeled up whistles,
dull Nike roars scraping the floor black,
the relentless dignitary squeaking of Rockports
muffled into a hum by designer black trousers.
An automated voice yells out,
Mind The Gap and collectively,
people are finding a few new
eyes, foreheads and the front pages of The Independent ,
but then back to a Doner kebab,
back to Shakespeare on paperback,
Dell and IBM, a chewed ragged fingernail,
the graffiti in the windows, back to the daily
crossword, the buttons on a new sweater,
the wrinkles on sleeves, the wedding proposal on the ceiling,
the electric guitar chords ringing out from a beggar's pick,
notes bouncing every which way,
the standing customers swinging
with the curve of the underground, hoping
the constant rocking won't reveal
the loose change hid in their trousers.
