Slow rattles echo like the beat
and drown in the open air,
Gently jerking closer and closer
to the rail’s final destination,
Cold steel nailed to the ground
then crushed with the mass of men.
Regular and periodic, they birth
and die with each passing cycle,
Every passing station with its
named irrelevance, timed worth,
Flashing through the life of
the bright eyes as they shake.
Rails and rattles finish there
as if the echoes cannot.
There they drown in the open air,
Falling in with the others that
are found on hard floor streets,
Following the next beat.