ROBERT BEVERIDGE

★ ★ ★ ★

POETRY

Underworld
Metropolis, Part 9

Even the ghosts refuse
to come down here.

Pristine fluorescent lights
push back the dark,
gleaming cold from blue-white tile.
No shadows here, no
place for the innocent to hide,
the lovers to rest.
Only those who ride the worms
have business here.

The rank wind
from the tunnel prefaces
the silver demon, spitting
and squealing,
vomiting some and devouring others.

The people down here
are almost faceless
and walking with a purpose
to their step,
the desperation-
stained scent of a thousand

* * *

He pauses in the doorway,
gives some change and a chicken leg
to the homeless man in the army jacket.
The peony from yesterday
still sits, withering,
in one buttonhole.

Thank you kindly, sir
he says, tipping his army cap.
I’ll remember ya, yes
I will. I always do.

* * *

The homeless man
follows the others into the depths,
fumbles a quarter
into the change box,
goes to the back car.
Lulled by wheels on tracks,
he sleeps.

At the end of the line
he is chased off the train
by two large men
in white undershirts
who carry baseball bats

You makin’ a mistake!
the homeless man shouts over his shoulder.
I’m the magistrate!
I’ll get ya back
you’ll see
you’ll see…

* * *

no place for the innocent to hide
for lovers to rest.

The lights never die